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OESTERLE  LIBRARY 


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“ WHAT  DO  YOU  MEAN  BY  THAT  ? YOU  UGLY  BRUTE,  YOU’VE  GOT  A 
CLEAN  SHIRT  ON  1 ” 

—Frontispiece,  Vol.  XYI.,  page  324. 


THE  WORKS  OF 


WILKIE  COLLINS 

VOLUME  SIXTEEN 

WITH  FRONTISPIECE 


THE  DEAD  SECRET 

A NOVEL 

% 4 


LITTLE  NOVEL 

MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE 


New  York 

PETER  FENELON  COLLIER,  PUBLISHER 


. 


I 


> ^ - b y 


THE  DEAD  SECRET 


BOOK  /. 


f 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE  TWENTY— THIRD  OF  AUGUST,  1829. 

“Will  she  last  out  the  night,  I wonder?” 
“Look  at  the  clock,  Mathew.” 

“Ten  minutes  past  twelve!  She  has  lasted 
the  night  out.  She  has  lived,  Robert,  to  see  ten 
minutes  of  the  new  day.” 

These  words  were  spoken  in  the  kitchen  of  a 
large  country-house  situated  on  the  west  coast  of 
Cornwall,  The  speakers  were  two  of  the  men- 
servants  composing  the  establishment  of  Captain 
Treverton,  an  officer  in  the  navy,  and  the  eldest 
male  representative  of  an  old  Cornish  family. 
Both  the  servants  communicated  with  each  other 
restrainedly,  in  whispers — sitting  close  together, 
and  looking  round  expectantly  toward  the  door 
whenever  the  talk  flagged  between  them. 

“It’s  an  awful  thing,”  said  the  elder  of  the 
men,  “for  us  two  to  be  alone  here,  at  this  dark 


6 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


time,  counting  out  the  minutes  that  our  mistress 
has  left  to  live!” 

“Robert,”  said  the  other,  “you  have  been  in 
the  service  here  since  you  were  a boy — did  you 
ever  hear  that  our  mistress  was  a play-actress 
when  our  master  married  her?” 

“How  came  you  to  know  that?”  inquired  the 
elder  servant,  sharply. 

“Hush!”  cried  the  other,  rising  quickly  from 
his  chair. 

A bell  rang  in  the  passage  outside. 

“Is  that  for  one  of  us?”  asked  Mathew. 

“Can’t  you  tell,  by  the  sound,  which  is  which 
of  those  bells  yet?”  exclaimed  Robert,  contempt- 
uously. “That  bell  is  for  Sarah  Leeson.  Go 
out  into  the  passage  and  look.” 

The  younger  servant  took  a candle  and  obeyed. 
When  he  opened  the  kitchen-door,  a long  row  of 
bells  met  his  eye  on  the  wall  opposite.  Above 
each  of  them  was  painted,  in  neat  black  letters, 
the  distinguishing  title  of  the  servant  whom  it 
was  specially  intended  to  summon.  The  row  of 
letters  began  with  Housekeeper  and  Butler,  and 
ended  with  Kitchen-maid  and  Footman’s  Boy. 

Looking  along  the  bells,  Mathew  easily  dis- 
covered that  one  of  them  was  still  in  motion. 
Above  it  were  the  words  Lady’s  Maid.  Observ- 
ing this,  he  passed  quickly  along  the  passage, 
and  knocked  at  an  old-fashioned  oak  door  at  the 
end  of  it.  No  answer  being  given,  he  opened 
the  door  and  looked  into  the  room.  It  was  dark 
and  empty. 

“Sarah  is  not  in  the  housekeeper’s  room,”  said 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


7 


Mathew,  returning  to  his  fellow-servant  in  the 
kitchen. 

“She  is  gone  to  her  own  room,  then,”  rejoined 
the  other.  “Go  up  and  tell  her  that  she  is 
wanted  by  her  mistress.” 

The  bell  rang  again  as  Mathew  went  out. 

“Quick! — quick!”  cried  Robert.  “Tell  her 
she  is  wanted  directly.  Wanted,”  he  continued 
to  himself  in  lower  tones,  “perhaps  for  the  last 
time!” 

Mathew  ascended  three  flights  of  stairs — passed 
half-way  down  a long  arched  gallery  — and 
knocked  at  another  old-fashioned  oak  door. 
This  time  the  signal  was  answered.  A low, 
clear,  sweet  voice,  inside  the  room,  inquired  who 
was  waiting  without?  In  a few  hasty  words 
Mathew  told  his  errand.  Before  he  had  done 
speaking  the  door  was  quietly  and  quickly 
opened,  and  Sarah  Leeson  confronted  him  on 
the  threshold,  with  her  candle  in  her  hand. 

Not  tall,  not  handsome,  not  in  her  first  youth 
— shy  and  irresolute  in  manner— simple  in  dress 
to  the  utmost  limits  of  plainness — the  lady’s- 
maid,  in  spite  of  all  these  disadvantages,  was  a 
woman  whom  it  was  impossible  to  look  at  with- 
out a feeling  of  curiosity,  if  not  of  interest.  Few' 
men,  at  first  sight  of  her,  could  have  resisted  the 
desire  to  find  out  who  she  was;  few  would  have 
been  satisfied  with  receiving  for  answer,  She  is 
Mrs.  Treverton’s  maid ; few  would  have  re- 
frained from  the  attempt  to  extract  some  secret 
information  for  themselves  from  her  face  and 
manner;  and  none,  not  even  the  most  patient 


8 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


and  practiced  of  observers,  could  have  succeeded 
in  discovering  more  than  that  she  must  have 
passed  through  the  ordeal  of  some  great  suffer- 
ing at  some  former  period  of  her  life.  Much  in 
her  manner,  and  more  in  her  face,  said  plainly 
and  sadly : I am  the  wreck  of  something  that 
you  might  once  have  liked  to  see;  a wreck  that 
can  never  be  repaired —that  must  drift  on  through 
life  unnoticed,  unguided,  unpitied — drift  till  the 
fatal  shore  is  touched,  and  the  waves  of  Time 
have  swallowed  up  these  broken  relics  of  me  for- 
ever. This  was  the  story  that  was  told  in  Sarah 
Leeson’s  face — this,  and  no  more. 

No  two  men  interpreting  that  story  for  them- 
selves, would  probably  have  agreed  on  the  nature 
of  the  suffering  which  this  woman  had  under- 
gone. It  was  hard  to  say,  at  the  outset,  whether 
the  past  pain  that  had  set  its  ineffaceable  mark 
on  her  had  been  pain  of  the  body  or  pain  of  the 
mind.  But  whatever  the  nature  of  the  affliction 
she  had  suffered,  the  traces  it  had  left  were  deep- 
ly and  strikingly  visible  in  every  part  of  her  face. 

Her  cheeks  had  lost  their  roundness  and  their 
natural  color;  her  lips,  singularly  flexible  in 
movement  and  delicate  in  form,  had  faded  to  an 
unhealthy  paleness;  her  eyes,  large  and  black 
and  overshadowed  by  unusually  thick  lashes, 
had  contracted  an  anxious  startled  look,  which 
never  left  them,  and  which  piteously  expressed 
the  painful  acuteness  of  her  sensibility,  the  in- 
herent timidity  of  her  disposition.  So  far,  the 
marks  which  sorrow  or  sickness  had  set  on  her 
were  the  marks  common  to  most  victims  of 


THE  BEAD  SECRET 


9 


mental  or  physical  suffering.  The  one  extra- 
ordinary personal  deterioration  which  she  had 
undergone  consisted  in  the  unnatural  change 
that  had  passed  over  the  color  of  her  hair.  It 
was  as  thick  and  soft,  it  grew  as  gracefully,  as 
the  hair  of  a young  girl ; but  it  was  as  gray  as 
the  hair  of  an  old  woman.  It  seemed  to  contra- 
dict, in  the  most  startling  manner,  every  per- 
sonal assertion  of  youth  that  still  existed  in  her 
face.  With  all  its  haggardness  and  paleness,  no 
one  could  have  looked  at  it  and  supposed  for  a 
moment  that  it  was  the  face  of  an  elderly  wo- 
man. Wan  as  they  might  be,  there  was  not  a 
wrinkle  in  her  cheeks.  Her  eyes,  viewed  apart 
from  their  prevailing  expression  of  uneasiness 
and  timidity,  still  preserved  that  bright,  clear 
moisture  which  is  never  seen  in  the  eyes  of  the 
old.  The  skin  about  her  temples  was  as  deli- 
cately smooth  as  the  skin  of  a child.  These  and 
other  physical  signs  which  never  mislead,  showed 
that  she  was  still,  as  to  years,  in  the  very  prime 
of  her  life.  Sickly  and  sorrow-stricken  as  she 
was,  she  looked,  from  the  eyes  downward,  a 
woman  who  had  barely  reached  thirty  years  of 
age.  From  the  eyes  upward,  the  effect  of  her 
abundant  gray  hair,  seen  in  connection  with  her 
face,  was  not  simply  incongruous — it  was  abso- 
lutely startling;  so  startling  as  to  make  it  no 
paradox  to  say  that  she  would  have  looked  most 
natural,  most  like  herself,  if  her  hair  had  been 
dyed.  In  her  case,  Art  would  have  seemed  to  be 
the  truth,  because  Nature  looked  like  falsehood. 

What  shock  had  stricken  her  hair,  in  the  very 


10 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


maturity  of  its  luxuriance,  with  the  hue  of  an 
unnatural  old  age?  Was  it  a serious  illness,  or 
a dreadful  grief,  that  had  turned  her  gray  in  the 
prime  of  her  womanhood?  That  question  had 
often  been  agitated  among  her  fellow-servants, 
who  were  all  struck  by  the  peculiarities  of  her 
personal  appearance,  and  rendered  a little  suspi- 
cious of  her,  as  well,  by  an  inveterate  habit  that 
she  had  of  talking  to  herself.  Inquire  as  they 
might,  however,  their  curiosity  was  always  baf- 
fled. Nothing  more  could  be  discovered  than 
that  Sarah  Leeson  was,  in  the  common  phrase, 
touchy  on  the  subject  of  her  gray  hair  and  her 
habit  of  talking  to  herself,  and  that  Sarah  Lee- 
son’s  mistress  had  long  since  forbidden  every 
one,  from  her  husband  downward,  to  ruffle  her 
maid’s  tranquillity  by  inquisitive  questions. 

She  stood  for  an  instant  speechless,  on  that 
momentous  morning  of  the  twenty-third  of  Au- 
gust, before  the  servant  who  summoned  her  to 
her  mistress’s  death-bed — the  light  of  the  candle 
flaring  brightly  over  her  large,  startled,  black 
eyes,  and  the  luxuriant,  unnatural  gray  hair 
above  them.  She  stood  a moment  silent — her 
hand  trembling  while  she  held  the  candlestick, 
so  that  the  extinguisher  lying  loose  in  it  rattled 
incessantly — then  thanked  the  servant  for  calling 
her.  The  trouble  and  fear  in  her  voice,  as  she 
spoke,  seemed  to  add  to  its  sweetness;  the  agita- 
tion of  her  manner  took  nothing  away  from  its 
habitual  gentleness,  its  delicate,  winning,  femi- 
nine restraint.  Mathew,  who,  like  the  other 
servants,  secretly  distrusted  and  disliked  her  for 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


11 


differing  from  the  ordinary  pattern  of  professed 
lady’s-maids,  was,  on  this  particular  occasion,  so 
subdued  by  her  manner  and  her  tone  as  she 
thanked  him,  that  he  offered  to  carry  her  candle 
for  her  to  the  door  of  her  mistress’s  bed-chamber. 
She  shook  her  head,  and  thanked  him  again,  then 
passed  before  him  quickly  on  her  way  out  of  the 
gallery. 

The  room  in  which  Mrs.  Treverton  lay  dying 
was  on  the  floor  beneath.  Sarah  hesitated  twice 
before  she  knocked  at  the  door.  It  was  opened 
by  Captain  Treverton. 

The  instant  she  saw  her  master  she  started 
back  from  him.  If  she  had  dreaded  a blow  she 
could  hardly  have  drawn  away  more  suddenly, 
or  with  an  expression  of  greater  alarm.  There 
was  nothing  in  Captain  Treverton’s  face  to  war- 
rant the  suspicion  of  ill-treatment,  or  even  of 
harsh  words.  His  countenance  was  kind,  hearty, 
and  open ; and  the  tears  were  still  trickling  down 
it  which  he  had  shed  by  his  wife’s  bedside. 

4 4 Go  in,  ’ ’ he  said,  turning  away  his  face.  4 4 She 
does  not  wish  the  nurse  to  attend;  she  only 
wishes  for  you.  Call  me  if  the  doctor — ” His 
voice  faltered,  and  he  hurried  away  without  at- 
tempting to  finish  the  sentence. 

Sarah  Leeson,  instead  of  entering  her  mis- 
tress’s room,  stood  looking  after  her  master 
attentively,  with  her  pale  cheeks  turned  to  a 
deathly  whiteness — with  an  eager,  doubting, 
questioning  terror  in  her  eyes.  When  he  had 
disappeared  round  the  corner  of  the  gallery,  she 
listened  for  a moment  outside  the  door  of  the 


12 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


sick-room  — whispered  affrightedly  to  herself, 

4 ‘Can  she  have  told  him?” — then  opened  the 
door,  with  a visible  effort  to  recover  her  self- 
control;  and,  after  lingering  suspiciously  on  the 
threshold  for  a moment,  went  in. 

Mrs.  Treverton’s  bed-chamber  was  a large, 
lofty  room,  situated  in  the  western  front  of  the 
house,  and  consequently  overlooking  the  sea- 
view.  The  night-light  burning  by  the  bedside 
displayed  rather  than  dispelled  the  darkness  in 
the  corners  of  the  room.  The  bed  was  of  the  old- 
fashioned  pattern,  with  heavy  hangings  and 
thick  curtains  drawn  all  round  it.  Of  the  other 
objects  in  the  chamber,  only  those  of  the  largest 
and  most  solid  kind  were  prominent  enough  to 
be  tolerably  visible  in  the  dim  light.  The  cabi- 
nets, the  wardrobe,  the  full-length  looking-glass, 
the  high-backed  arm-chair,  these,  with  the  great 
shapeless  bulk  of  the  bed  itself,  towered  up  heav- 
ily and  gloomily  into  view.  Other  objects  were 
all  merged  together  in  the  general  obscurity. 
Through  the  open  window,  opened  to  admit  the 
fresh  air  of  the  new  morning  after  the  sultriness 
of  the  August  night,  there  poured  monotonously 
into  the  room  the  dull,  still,  distant  roaring  of 
the  surf  on  the  sandy  coast.  All  outer  noises 
were  hushed  at  that  first  dark  hour  of  the  new 
day.  Inside  the  room  the  one  audible  sound  was 
the  slow,  toilsome  breathing  of  the  dying  wo- 
man, raising  itself  in  its  mortal  frailness,  awful- 
ly and  distinctly,  even  through  the  far  thunder- 
breathing from  the  bosom  of  the  everlasting  sea. 

“Mistress,”  said  Sarah  Leeson,  standing  close 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


13 


to  the  curtains,  but  not  withdrawing  them,  “my 
master  has  left  the  room,  and  has  sent  me  here 
in  his  place.” 

“ Light! — give  me  more  light.” 

The  feebleness  of  mortal  sickness  was  in  the 
voice;  but  the  accent  of  the  speaker  sounded 
resolute  even  yet — doubly  resolute  by  contrast 
with  the  hesitation  of  the  tones  in  which  Sarah 
had  spoken.  The  strong  nature  of  the  mistress 
and  the  weak  nature  of  the  maid  came  out,  even 
in  that  short  interchange  of  words  spoken  through 
the  curtain  of  a death- bed. 

Sarah  lit  two  candles  with  a wavering  hand — 
placed  them  hesitatingly  on  a table  by  the  bed- 
side— waited  for  a moment,  looking  all  round 
her  with  suspicious  timidity — then  undrew  the 
curtains. 

The  disease  of  which  Mrs.  Treverton  was  dying 
was  (me  of  the  most  terrible  of  all  the  maladies 
that  afflict  humanity,  one  to  which  women  are 
especially  subject,  and  one  which  undermines 
life  without,  in  most  cases,  showing  any  remark- 
able traces  of  its  corroding  progress  in  the  face. 
No  uninstructed  person,  looking  at  Mrs.  Trever- 
ton when  her  attendant  undrew  the  bed-curtain, 
could  possibly  have  imagined  that  she  was  past 
all  help  that  mortal  skill  could  offer  to  her.  The 
slight  marks  of  illness  in  her  face,  the  inevitable 
changes  in  the  grace  and  round  ness  of  its  outline, 
were  rendered  hardly  noticeable  by  the  marvel- 
ous preservation  of  her  complexion  in  all  the 
light  and  delicacy  of  its  first  girlish  beauty. 
There  lay  her  face  on  the  pillow — tenderly  framed 


14 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


in  by  the  rich  lace  of  her  cap,  softly  crowned  by 
her  shining  brown  hair — to  all  outward  appear- 
ance, the  face  of  a beautiful  woman  recovering 
from  a slight  illness,  or  reposing  after  unusual 
fatigue.  Even  Sarah  Leeson,  who  had  watched 
her  all  through  her  malady,  could  hardly  believe, 
as  she  looked  at  her  mistress,  that  the  Gates  of 
Life  had  closed  behind  her,  and  that  the  beckon- 
ing hand  of  Death  was  signing  to  her  already 
from  the  Gates  of  the  Grave. 

Some  dog’s-eared  books  in  paper  covers  lay  on 
the  counterpane  of  the  bed.  As  soon  as  the  cur- 
tain was  drawn  aside  Mrs.  Treverton  ordered 
her  attendant  by  a gesture  to  remove  them. 
They  were  plays,  underscored  in  certain  places 
by  ink  lines,  and  marked  with  marginal  annota- 
tions referring  to  entrances,  exits,  and  places  on 
the  stage.  The  servants,  talking  downstairs  of 
their  mistress’s  occupation  before  her  marriage, 
had  not  been  misled  by  false  reports.  Their 
master,  after  he  had  passed  the  prime  of  life, 
had,  in  very  truth,  taken  his  wife  from  the  ob- 
scure stage  of  a country  theater,  when  little 
more  than  two  years  had  elapsed  since  her  first 
appearance  in  public.  The  dog’s-eared  old  plays 
had  been  once  her  treasured  dramatic  library; 
she  had  always  retained  a fondness  for  them 
from  old  associations;  and,  during  the  latter 
part  of  her  illness,  they  had  remained  on  her 
bed  for  days  and  days  together. 

Having  put  away  the  plays,  Sarah  went  back 
to  her  mistress;  and,  with  more  of  dread  and  be- 
wilderment in  her  face  than  grief,  opened  her 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


15 


lips  to  speak.  Mr.  Treverton  held  up  her  hand, 
as  a sign  that  she  had  another  order  to  give. 

“Bolt  the  door,”  she  said,  in  the  same  enfee- 
bled voice,  but  with  the  same  accent  of  resolu- 
tion which  had  so  strikingly  marked  her  first 
request  to  have  more  light  in  the  room.  “Bolt 
the  door.  Let  no  one  in,  till  I give  you  leave.’ ’ 
“No  one?”  repeated  Sarah,  faintly.  “Not  the 
doctor?  not  even  my  master?” 

“Not  the  doctor — not  even  your  master,”  said 
Mrs.  Treverton,  and  pointed  to  the  door.  The 
hand  was  weak;  but  even  in  that  momentary 
action  of  it  there  was  no  mistaking  the  gesture 
of  command. 

Sarah  bolted  the  door,  returned  irresolutely  to 
the  bedside,  fixed  her  large,  eager,  startled  eyes 
inquiringly  on  her  mistress’s  face,  and,  suddenly 
bending  over  her,  said  in  a whisper: 

“Have  you  told  my  master?” 

“No,”  was  the  answer.  “I  sent  for  him,  to 
tell  him — I tried  hard  to  speak  the  words — it 
shook  me  to  my  very  soul,  only  to  think  how  I 
should  best  break  it  to  him — I am  so  fond  of 
him!  I love  him  so  dearly!  But  I should  have 
spoken  in  spite  of  that,  if  he  had  not  talked  of 
the  child.  Sarah!  he  did  nothing  but  talk  of 
the  child — and  that  silenced  me.” 

Sarah,  with  a forgetfulness  of  her  station  which 
might  have  appeared  extraordinary  even  in  the 
eyes  of  the  most  lenient  of  mistresses,  flung  her- 
self back  in  a chair  when  the  first  word  of  Mrs. 
Treverton’s  reply  was  uttered,  clasped  her  trem- 
bling hands  over  her  face,  and  groaned  to  her- 


16 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


self,  “Oh,  what  will  happen!  what  will  happen 
now!” 

Mrs.  Treverton’s  eyes  had  softened  and  moist- 
ened when  she  spoke  of  her  love  for  her  hus- 
band. She  lay  silent  for  a few  minutes;  the 
working  of  some  strong  emotion  in  her  being 
expressed  by  her  quick,  hard,  labored  breathing, 
and  by  the  painful  contraction  of  her  eyebrows. 
Ere  long,  she  turned  her  head  uneasily  toward 
the  chair  in  which  her  attendant  was  sitting, 
and  spoke  again — this  time  in  a voice  which  had 
sunk  to  a whisper. 

4 ‘ Look  for  my  medicine,  ’ ’ said  she ; “ 1 want  it. 5 ’ 

Sarah  started  up,  and  with  the  quick  instinct 
of  obedience  brushed  away  the  tears  that  were 
rolling  fast  over  her  cheeks. 

“The  doctor,”  she  said.  “Let  me  call  the 
doctor.” 

“No!  The  medicine — look  for  the  medicine.” 

“Which  bottle?  The  opiate — ” 

“No.  Not  the  opiate.  The  other.” 

Sarah  took  a bottle  from  the  table,  and  looking 
attentively  at  the  written  direction  on  the  label, 
said  that  it  was  not  yet  time  to  take  that  medi- 
cine again. 

“Give  me  the  bottle.” 

“Oh,  pray  don’t  ask  me.  Pray  wait.  The 
doctor  said  it  was  as  bad  as  dram-drinking,  if 
you  took  too  much.” 

Mrs.  Treverton’s  clear  gray  eyes  began  to  flash; 
the  rosy  flush  deepened  on  her  cheeks ; the  com- 
manding hand  was  raised  again,  by  an  effort, 
from  the  counterpane  on  which  it  lay. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


17 


“ Take  the  cork  out  of  the  bottle,”  she  said, 
“and  give  it  to  me.  I want  strength.  No  mat- 
ter whether  I die  in  an  hour’s  time  or  a week’s. 
Give  me  the  bottle.” 

“No,  no — not  the  bottle!”  said  Sarah,  giving 
it  up,  nevertheless,  under  the  influence  of  her 
mistress’s  look.  “There  are  two  doses  left. 
Wait,  pray  wait  till  I get  a glass.” 

She  turned  again  toward  the  table.  At  the 
same  instant  Mrs.  Treverton  raised  the  bottle  to 
her  lips,  drained  it  of  its  contents,  and  flung  it 
from  her  on  the  bed. 

“She  has  killed  herself!”  cried  Sarah,  run- 
ning in  terror  to  the  door. 

“Stop!”  said  the  voice  from  the  bed,  more 
resolute  than  ever,  already.  “Stop ! Come  back 
and  prop  me  up  higher  on  the  pillows.” 

Sarah  put  her  hand  on  the  bolt. 

“Come  back!”  reiterated  Mrs.  Treverton. 
“While  there  is  life  in  me,  I will  be  obeyed. 
Come  back!”  The  color  began  to  deepen  per- 
ceptibly all  over  her  face,  and  the  light  to  grow 
brighter  in  her  widely  opened  eyes, 

Sarah  came  back;  and  with  shaking  hands 
added  one  more  to  the  many  pillows  which  sup- 
ported the  dying  woman’s  head  and  shoulders. 
While  this  was  being  done  the  bed-clothes  be- 
came a little  discomposed.  Mrs.  Treverton 
shuddered,  and  drew  them  up  to  their  former 
position,  close  round  her  neck. 

“Did  you  unbolt  the  door?”  she  asked. 

“No.” 

“I  forbid  you  to  go  near  it  again.  Get  my 


18 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


writing-case,  and  the  pen  and  ink,  from  the  cab- 
inet near  the  window.” 

Sarah  went  to  the  cabinet  and  opened  it;  then 
stopped,  as  if  some  sudden  suspicion  had  crossed 
her  mind,  and  asked  what  the  writing  materials 
were  wanted  for. 

“ Bring  them,  and  you  will  see.” 

The  writing-case,  with  a sheet  of  note-paper 
on  it,  was  placed  upon  Mrs.  Treverton’s  knees; 
the  pen  was  dipped  into  the  ink,  and  given  to 
her;  she  paused,  closed  her  eyes  for  a minute, 
and  sighed  heavily;  then  began  to  write,  saying 
to  her  waiting-maid,  as  the  pen  touched  the 
paper — “Look.” 

Sarah  peered  anxiously  over  her  shoulder,  and 
saw  the  pen  slowly  and  feebly  form  these  three 
words : To  my  Husband . 

“Oh,  no!  no!  For  God’s  sake,  don’t  write 
it!”  she  cried,  catching  at  her  mistress’s  hand — 
but  suddenly  letting  it  go  again  the  moment 
Mrs.  Treverton  looked  at  her. 

The  pen  went  on;  and  more  slowly,  more  fee- 
bly, formed  words  enough  to  fill  a line — then 
stopped.  The  letters  of  the  last  syllable  were  all 
blotted  together. 

“Don’t!”  reiterated  Sarah,  dropping  on  her 
knees  at  the  bedside.  “Don’t  write  it  to  him  if 
you  can’t  tell  it  to  him.  Let  me  go  on  bearing 
what  I have  borne  so  long  already.  Let  the 
Secret  die  with  you  and  die  with  me,  and  be 
never  known  in  this  world — never,  never,  never!” 
“The  Secret  must  be  told,”  answered  Mrs. 
Treverton.  “My  husband  ought  to  know  it, 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


19 


and  must  know  it.  I tried  to  tell  him,  and  my 
courage  failed  me.  I cannot  trust  you  to  tell 
him,  after  I am  gone.  It  must  be  written.  Take 
you  the  pen;  my  sight  is  failing,  my  touch  is 
dull.  Take  the  pen,  and  write  what  I tell  you.” 

Sarah,  instead  of  obeying,  hid  her  face  in  the 
bed-cover,  and  wept  bitterly. 

“Y.ou  have  been  with  me  ever  since  my  mar- 
riage,” Mrs.  Treverton  went  on.  “You  have 
been  my  friend  more  than  my  servant.  Do  you 
refuse  my  last  request?  You  do ! Fool ! look  up 
and  listen  to  me.  On  your  peril,  refuse  to  take 
the  pen  Write,  or  I shall  not  rest  in  my  grave. 
Write , or,  as  true  as  there  is  a heaven  above 
usy  I will  come  to  you  from  the  other  world /” 

Sarah  started  to  her  feet  with  a faint  scream. 

“You  make  my  flesh  creep!”  she  whispered, 
fixing  her  eyes  on  her  mistress’s  face  with  a stare 
of  superstitious  horror. 

At  the  same  instant,  the  overdose  of  the  stim- 
ulating medicine  began  to  affect  Mrs.  Treverton’s 
brain.  She  rolled  her  head  restlessly  from  side 
to  side  of  the  pillow — repeated  vacantly  a few 
lines  from  one  of  the  old  play-books  which  had 
been  removed  from  her  bed — and  suddenly  held 
out  the  pen  to  the  servant,  with  a theatrical  wave 
of  the  hand,  and  a glance  upward  at  an  imagi- 
nary gallery  of  spectators. 

“Write!”  she  cried,  with  an  awful  mimicry 
of  her  old  stage  voice.  “Write!”  And  the 
weak  hand  was  waved  again  with  a forlorn, 
feeble  imitation  of  the  old  stage  gesture. 

Closing  her  fingers  mechanically  on  the  pen 


20 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS, 


that  was  thrust  between  them,  Sarah,  with  her 
eyes  still  expressing  the  superstitious  terror 
which  her  mistress’s  words  had  aroused,  waited 
for  the  next  command.  Some  minutes  elapsed 
before  Mrs.  Treverton  spoke  again.  She  still 
retained  her  senses  sufficiently  to  be  vaguely 
conscious  of  the  effect  which  the  medicine  was 
producing  on  her,  and  to  be  desirous  of  combat- 
ing its  further  progress  before  it  succeeded  in 
utterly  confusing  her  ideas.  She  asked  first  for 
the  smelling-bottle,  next  for  some  Eau  de  Cologne. 

This  last,  poured  on  to  her  handkerchief  and 
applied  to  her  forehead,  seemed  to  prove  success- 
ful in  partially  clearing  her  faculties,  Her  eyes 
recovered  their  steady  look  of  intelligence;  and, 
when  she  again  addressed  her  maid,  reiterating 
the  word  “Write,”  she  was  able  to  enforce  the 
direction  by  beginning  immediately  to  dictate 
in  quiet,  deliberate,  determined  tones.  Sarah’s 
tears  fell  fast;  her  lips  murmured  fragments 
of  sentences  in  which  entreaties,  expressions  of 
penitence  and  exclamations  of  fear  were  all 
strangely  mingled  together;  but  she  wrote  on 
submissively,  in  wavering  lines,  until  she  had 
nearly  filled  the  first  two  sides  of  the  note-paper. 
Then  Mrs.  Treverton  paused,  looked  the  writing 
over,  and,  taking  the  pen,  signed  her  name  at 
the  end  of  it,  With  this  eff  ort,  her  powers  of  re- 
sistence  to  the  exciting  effect  of  the  medicine 
seemed  to  fail  her  again.  The  deep  flush  began 
to  tinge  her  cheeks  once  more,  and  she  spoke 
hurriedly  and  unsteadily  when  she  handed  the 
pen  back  to  her  maid. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


21 


“Sign!”  she  cried,  beating  her  hand  feebly 
on  the  bed-clothes.  “Sign  c Sarah  Leeson,  wit- 
ness.’ No!  — write  ‘Accomplice.’  Take  your 
share  of  it;  I won’t  have  it  shifted  on  me. 
Sign,  I insist  on  it!  Sign  as  I tell  you.” 

Sarah  obeyed;  and  Mrs.  Treverton,  taking  the 
paper  from  her,  pointed  to  it  solemnly,  with  a 
return  of  the  stage  gesture  which  had  escaped 
her  a little  while  back. 

“You  will  give  this  to  your  master,”  she  said, 
“when  I am  dead;  and  you  will  answer  any 
questions  he  puts  to  you  as  truly  as  if  you  were 
before  the  judgment-seat.” 

Clasping  her  hands  fast  together,  Sarah  re- 
garded her  mistress,  for  the  first  time,  with 
steady  eyes,  and  spoke  to  her  for  the  first  time 
in  steady  tones. 

“If  I only  knew  that  I was  fit  to  die,”  she 
said,  “oh,  how  gladly  I would  change  places 
with  you!” 

“Promise  me  that  you  will  give  the  paper  to 
your  master,”  repeated  Mrs.  Treverton.  “Prom- 
ise— no!  I won’t  trust  your  promise — I’ll  have 
your  oath.  Get  the  Bible — the  Bible  the  clergy- 
man used  when  he  was  here  this  morning.  Get 
it,  or  I shall  not  rest  in  my  grave.  Get  it,  or  1 
will  come  to  you  from  the  other  world  ” 

The  mistress  laughed  as  she  reiterated  that 
threat,  The  maid  shuddered,  as  she  obeyed  the 
command  which  it  was  designed  to  impress  on 
her. 

“Yes,  yes — the  Bible  the  clergyman  used,” 
continued  Mrs.  Treverton,  vacantly,  after  the 


22 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


book  had  been  produced.  4 ‘The  clergyman — a 
poor  weak  man — I frightened  him,  Sarah.  He 
said:  ‘ Are  you  at  peace  with  all  the  world?’  and 
I said:  ‘All  but  one.’  You  know  who.” 

“The  Captain’s  brother?  Oh,  don’t  die  at 
enmity  with  anybody.  Don’t  die  at  enmity 
even  with  pleaded  Sarah. 

“The  clergyman  said  so  too,”  murmured  Mr. 
Treverton,  her  eyes  beginning  to  wander  child- 
ishly round  the  room,  her  tones  growing  suddenly 
lower  and  more  confused.  “ ‘You  must  forgive 
him,’  the  clergyman  said.  And  I said:  ‘No,  I 
forgive  all  the  world,  but  not  my  husband’s 
brother.  ’ The  clergyman  got  up  from  the  bed- 
side, frightened,  Sarah.  He  talked  about  pray- 
ing for  me  and  coming  back.  Will  he  come 
back?” 

“Yes,  yes,”  answered  Sarah.  “He  is  a good 
man — he  will  come  back — and  oh,  tell  him  that 
you  forgive  the  Captain’s  brother!  Those  vile 
words  he  spoke  of  you  when  you  were  married 
will  come  home  to  him  some  day.  Forgive  him 
— forgive  him  before  you  die!” 

Saying  those  words,  she  attempted  to  remove 
the  Bible  softly  out  of  her  mistress’s  sight.  The 
action  attracted  Mrs.  Treverton’s  attention,  and 
roused  her  sinking  faculties  into  observation  of 
present  things. 

“Stop!”  she  cried,  with  a gleam  of  the  old 
resolution  flashing  once  more  over  the  dying  dim- 
ness of  her  eyes.  She  caught  at  Sarah’s  hand 
with  a great  effort,  placed  it  on  the  Bible,  and 
held  it  there.  Her  other  hand  wandered  a little 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


23 


over  the  bed-clothes,  until  it  encountered  the  writ- 
ten paper  addressed  to  her  husband.  Her  fingers 
closed  on  it,  and  a sigh  of  relief  escaped  her  lips. 

“Ah!  ” she  said,  “I  know  what  I wanted  the 
Bible  for.  Fm  dying  with  all  my  senses  about 
me,  Sarah ; you  can’t  decei  ve  me  even  yet.  ’ ’ She 
stopped  again,  smiled  a little,  whispered  to  her- 
self rapidly,  “Wait,  wait,  wait!”  then  added 
aloud,  with  the  old  stage  voice  and  the  old  stage 
gesture:  “No!  I won’t  trust  you  on  your  prom- 
ise. I’ll  have  your  oath.  Kneel  down.  These 
are  my  last  words  in  this  world — disobey  them 
if  you  dare!” 

Sarah  dropped  on  her  knees  by  the  bed.  The 
breeze  outside,  strengthening  just  then  with  the 
slow  advance  of  the  morning,  parted  the  win- 
dow-curtains a little,  and  wafted  a breath  of  its 
sweet  fragrance  j oyously  into  the  sick-room.  The 
heavy  beating  hum  of  the  distant  surf  came  in 
at  the  same  time,  and  poured  out  its  unresting 
music  in  louder  strains.  Then  the  window-cur- 
tains  fell  again  heavily,  the  wavering  flame  of 
the  candle  grew  .steady  once  more,  and  the  awful 
silence  in  the  room  sank  deeper  than  ever. 

“Swear!”  said  Mrs.  Treverton.  Her  voice 
failed  her  when  she  had  pronounced  that  one 
word.  She  struggled  a little,  recovered  the 
power  of  utterance,  and  went  on:  “Swear  that 
you  will  not  destroy  this  paper  after  I am  dead.” 

Even  while  she  pronounced  these  solemn  words, 
even  at  that  last  struggle  for  life  and  strength, 
the  ineradicable  theatrical  instinct  showed,  with 
a fearful  inappropriateness,  how  firmly  it  kept 


24 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


its  place  in  her  mind.  Sarah  felt  the  cold  hand 
that  was  still  laid  on  hers  lifted  for  a moment- 
saw  it  waving  gracefully  toward  her — felt  it  de- 
scend again,  and  clasp  her  own  hand  with  a 
trembling,  impatient  pressure.  At  that  final 
appeal,  she  answered,  faintly: 

“I  swear  it.” 

“Swear  that  you  will  not  take  this  paper  away 
with  you,  if  you  leave  the  house,  after  I am 
dead.” 

Again  Sarah  paused  before  she  answered — 
again  the  trembling  pressure  made  itself  felt 
on  her  hand,  but  more  weakly  this  time — and 
again  the  words  dropped  affrightedly  from  her 
lips: 

“I  swear  it.” 

“Swear!”  Mrs.  Treverton  began  for  the  third 
time.  Her  voice  failed  her  once  more ; and  she 
struggled  vainly  to  regain  the  command  over  it. 

Sarah  looked  up,  and  saw  signs  of  convulsion 
beginning  to  disfigure  the  white  face — saw  the 
fingers  of  the  white,  delicate  hand  getting  crooked 
as  they  reached  over  toward  the  table  on  which 
the  medicine- bottles  were  placed. 

“You  drank  it  all,”  she  cried,  starting  to  her 
feet,  as  she  comprehended  the  meaning  of  that 
gesture.  “Mistress,  dear  mistress,  you  drank  it 
all — there  is  nothing  but  the  opiate  left.  Let 
me  go — let  me  go  and  call — ” 

A look  from  Mrs.  Treverton  stopped  her  before 
she  could  utter  another  word.  The  lips  of  the 
dying  woman  were  moving  rapidly.  Sarah  put 
her  ear  close  to  them.  At  first  she  heard  nothing 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


25 


but  panting,  quick-drawn  breaths — then  a few 
broken  words  mingled  confusedly  with  them: 

“I  haven’t  done — you  must  swear — close,  close, 
come  close — a third  thing — your  master — swear 
to  give  it — ” 

The  last  words  died  away  very  softly.  The 
lips  that  had  been  forming  them  so  laboriously 
parted  on  a sudden  and  closed  again  no  more. 
Sarah  sprang  to  the  door,  opened  it,  and  called 
into  the  passage  for  help ; then  ran  back  to  the 
bedside,  caught  up  the  sheet  of  note-paper  on 
which  she  had  written  from  her  mistress’s  dic- 
tation, and  hid  it  in  her  bosom.  The  last  look 
of  Mrs.  Treverton’s  eyes  fastened  sternly  and 
reproachfully  on  her  as  she  did  this,  and  kept 
their  expression  unchanged,  through  the  momen- 
tary distortion  of  the  rest  of  the  features,  for  one 
breathless  moment.  That  moment  passed,  and, 
with  the  next,  the  shadow  which  goes  before  the 
presence  of  death  stole  up  and  shut  out  the  light 
of  life  in  one  quiet  instant  from  all  the  face. 

The  doctor,  followed  by  the  nurse  and  by  one 
of  the  servants,  entered  the  room;  and,  hurrying 
to  the  bedside,  saw  at  a glance  that  the  time  for 
his  attendance  there  had  passed  away  forever. 
He  spoke  first  to  the  servant  who  had  followed 
him. 

“Go  to  your  master,”  he  said,  “and  beg  him 
to  wait  in  his  own  room  until  I can  come  and 
speak  to  him.” 

Sarah  still  stood — without  moving  or  speaking, 
or  noticing  any  one — by  the  bedside. 

The  nurse,  approaching  to  draw  the  curtains 


26 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


together,  started  at  the  sight  of  her  face,  and 
turned  to  the  doctor. 

“I  think  this  person  had  better  leave  the  room, 
sir?”  said  the  nurse,  with  some  appearance  of 
contempt  in  her  tones  and  looks.  “She  seems 
unreasonably  shocked  and  terrified  by  what  has 
happened.” 

“Quite  right,”  said  the  doctor.  “It  is  best 
that  she  should  withdraw. — Let  me  recommend 
you  to  leave  us  for  a little  while,”  he  added, 
touching  Sarah  on  the  arm. 

She  shrank  back  suspiciously,  raised  one  of 
her  hands  to  the  place  where  the  letter  lay  hid- 
den in  her  bosom,  and  pressed  it  there  firmly 
while  she  held  out  the  other  hand  for  a 
candle. 

“You  had  better  rest  for  a little  in  your  own 
room,”  said  the  doctor,  giving  her  a candle. 
“Stop,  though,”  he  continued,  after  a moment’s 
reflection.  “I  am  going  to  break  the  sad  news 
to  your  master,  and  I may  find  that  he  is  anxious 
to  hear  any  last  words  that  Mrs.  Treverton  may 
ha\re  spoken  in  your  presence.  Perhaps  you  had 
better  come  with  me,  and  wait  while  I go  into 
Captain  Treverton’s  room.” 

“No!  no! — oh,  not  now— not  now,  for  God’s 
sake!”  Speaking  those  words  in  low,  quick, 
pleading  tones,  and  drawing  back  affrightedly 
to  the  door,  Sarah  disappeared  without  waiting 
a moment  to  be  spoken  to  again. 

“A strange  woman!”  said  the  doctor,  address- 
ing the  nurse.  “Follow  her,  and  see  where  she 
goes  to,  in  case  she  is  wanted  and  we  are  obliged 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


27 


to  send  for  her.  I will  wait  here  until  you  come 
back.” 

When  the  nurse  returned  she  had  nothing  to 
report  but  that  she  had  followed  Sarah  Leeson 
to  her  own  bedroom,  had  seen  her  enter  it,  had 
listened  outside,  and  had  heard  her  lock  the  door, 
“A  strange  woman!”  repeated  the  doctor. 
“One  of  the  silent,  secret  sort.” 

“One  of  the  wrong  sort,”  said  the  nurse. 
“She  is  always  talking  to  herself,  and  that  is 
a bad  sign,  in  my  opinion.  I distrusted  her,  sir, 
the  very  first  day  I entered  the  house.” 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  CHILD. 

The  instant  Sarah  Leeson  had  turned  the  key 
of  her  bedroom  door,  she  took  the  sheet  of  note- 
paper  from  its  place  of  concealment  in  her  bosom 
— shuddering,  when  she  drew  it  out,  as  if  the 
mere  contact  of  it  hurt  her — placed  it  open  on 
her  little  dressing-table,  and  fixed  her  eyes  eagerly 
on  the  lines  which  the  note  contained.  At  first 
they  swam  and  mingled  together  before  her.  She 
pressed  her  hands  over  her  eyes,  for  a few  min- 
utes, and  then  looked  at  the  writing  again. 

The  characters  were  clear  now — vividy  clear, 
and,  as  she  fancied,  unnaturally  large  and  near 
to  view.  There  was  the  address:  “To  my  Hus- 
band”; there  the  first  blotted  line  beneath,  in 
her  dead  mistress’s  handwriting;  there  the  lines 


28 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


that  followed,  traced  by  her  own  pen,  with  the 
signature  at  the  end — Mrs.  Treverton’s  first,  and 
then  her  own.  The  whole  amounted  to  but  very 
few  sentences,  written  on  one  perishable  fragment 
of  paper,  which  the  flame  of  a candle  would  have 
consumed  in  a moment.  Yet  there  she  sat,  read- 
ing, reading,  reading,  over  and  over  again; 
never  touching  the  note,  except  when  it  was  ab- 
solutely necessary  to  turn  over  the  first  page; 
never  moving,  never  speaking,  never  raising  her 
eyes  from  the  paper.  As  a condemned  prisoner 
might  read  his  death-warrant,  so  did  Sarah 
Leeson  now  read  the  few  lines  which  she  and 
her  mistress  had  written  together  not  half  an 
hour  since. 

The  secret  of  the  paralyzing  effect  of  that  writ- 
ing on  her  mind  lay,  not  only  in  itself,  but  in 
the  circumstances  which  had  attended  the  act  of 
its  production. 

The  oath  which  had  been  proposed  by  Mrs. 
Treverfcon  under  no  more  serious  influence  than 
the  last  caprice  of  her  disordered  faculties,  stimu- 
lated by  confused  remembrances  of  stage  words 
and  stage  situations,  had  been  accepted  by  Sarah 
Leeson  as  the  most  sacred  and  inviolable  engage- 
ment to  which  she  could  bind  herself.  The  threat 
of  enforcing  obedience  to  her  last  commands  from 
beyond  the  grave,  which  the  mistress  had  uttered 
in  mocking  experiment  on  the  superstitious  fears 
of  the  maid,  now  hung  darkly  over  the  weak 
mind  of  Sarah,  as  a judgment  which  might  de- 
scend on  her,  visibly  and  inexorably,  at  any  mo- 
ment of  her  future  life.  When  she  roused  her- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


29 


self  at  last,  and  pushed  away  the  paper  and  rose 
to  her  feet,  she  stood  quite  still  for  an  instant, 
before  she  ventured  to  look  behind  her.  When 
she  did  look,  it  was  with  an  effort  and  a start, 
with  a searching  distrust  of  the  empty  dimness 
in  the  remoter  corners  of  the  room. 

Her  old  habit  of  talking  to  herself  began  to 
resume  its  influence,  as  she  now  walked  rapidly 
backward  and  forward,  sometimes  along  the  room 
and  sometimes  across  it.  She  repeated  inces- 
santly such  broken  phrases  as  these : “How  can 
I give  him  the  letter? — Such  a good  master;  so 
kind  to  us  all. — Why  did  she  die,  and  leave  it 
all  to  me? — I can’t  bear  it  alone;  it’s  too  much 
for  me.”  While  reiterating  these  sentences,  she 
vacantly  occupied  herself  in  putting  things  about 
the  room  in  order,  which  were  set  in  perfect  order 
already.  All  her  looks,  all  her  actions,  betrayed 
the  vain  struggle  of  a weak  mind  to  sustain  itself 
under  the  weight  of  a heavy  responsibility.  She 
arranged  and  re-arranged  the  cheap  china  orna- 
ments on  her  chimney-piece  a dozen  times  over 
— put  her  pin-cushion  first  on  the  looking-glass, 
then  on  the  table  in  front  of  it — changed  the 
position  of  the  little  porcelain  dish  and  tray  on 
her  wash-hand-stand,  now  to  one  side  of  the 
basin  and  now  to  the  other.  Throughout  all 
these  trifling  actions  the  natural  grace,  delicacy, 
and  prim  neat- handedness  of  the  woman  still 
waited  mechanically  on  the  most  useless  and 
aimless  of  her  occupations  of  the  moment.  She 
knocked  nothing  down,  she  put  nothing  awry; 
her  footsteps  at  the  fastest  made  no  sound — the 


30 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


very  skirts  of  her  dress  were  kept  as  properly  and 
prudishly  composed  as  if  it  was  broad  daylight 
and  the  eyes  of  all  her  neighbors  were  looking  at 
her. 

From  time  to  time  the  sense  of  the  words  she 
was  murmuring  confusedly  to  herself  changed. 
Sometimes  they  disjointedly  expressed  bolder  and 
more  self-reliant  thoughts.  Once  they  seemed 
to  urge  her  again  to  the  dressing-table  and  the 
open  letter  on  it,  against  her  own  will.  She 
read  aloud  the  address,  “To  my  Husband,”  and 
caught  the  letter  up  sharply,  and  spoke  in  firmer 
tones.  “Why  give  it  to  him  at  all?  Why  not 
let  the  secret  die  with  her  and  die  with  me,  as  it 
ought?  Why  should  he  know  it?  He  shall  not 
know  it!” 

Saying  those  last  words,  she  desperately  held 
the  letter  within  an  inch  of  the  flame  of  the  can- 
dle. At  the  same  moment  the  white  curtain 
over  the  window  before  her  stirred  a little,  as 
the  freshening  air  found  its  way  through  the  old- 
fashioned,  ill-fitting  sashes.  Her  eye  caught 
sight  of  it,  as  it  waved  gently  backward  and 
forward.  She  clasped  the  letter  suddenly  to  her 
breast  with  both  hands,  and  shrank  back  against 
the  wall  of  the  room,  her  eyes  still  fastened  on 
the  curtain  with  the  same  blank  look  of  horror 
which  they  had  exhibited  when  Mrs.  Treverton 
had  threatened  to  claim  her  servant’s  obedience 
from  the  other  world. 

“Something  moves,”  she  gasped  to  herself,  in 
a breathless  whisper.  “Something  moves  in  the 


room. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET, 


33 


had  hidden  it  on  leaving  her  mistress’s  bed- 
-side. 

She  then  stole  across  the  nursery  on  tiptoe  to- 
ward the  inner  room.  The  entrance  to  it,  to 
please  some  caprice  of  the  child’s,  had  been 
arched,  and  framed  with  trellis  - work,  gayly 
colored,  so  as  to  resemble  the  entrance  to  a sum- 
mer-house. Two  pretty  chintz  curtains,  hanging 
inside  the  trellis- work,  formed  the  only  barrier 
between  the  day-room  and  the  bedroom.  One 
of  these  was  looped  up,  and  toward  the  opening 
thus  made  Sarah  now  advanced,  after  cautiously 
leaving  her  candle  in  the  passage  outside. 

The  first  object  that  attracted  her  attention  in 
the  child’s  bedroom  was  the  figure  of  the  nurse- 
maid, leaning  back,  fast  asleep,  in  an  easy-chair 
by  the  window.  Venturing,  after  this  discovery, 
to  look  more  boldly  into  the  room,  she  next  saw 
her  master  sitting  with  his  back  toward  her,  by 
the  side  of  the  child’s  crib.  Little  Rosamond 
was  awake,  and  was  standing  up  in  bed  with 
her  arms  round  her  father’s  neck.  One  of  her 
hands  held  over  his  shoulder  the  doll  that  she 
had  taken  to  bed  with  her,  the  other  was  twined 
gently  in  his  hair.  The  child  had  been  crying 
bitterly,  and  had  now  exhausted  herself,  so  that 
she  was  only  moaning  a little  from  time  to  time, 
with  her  head  laid  wearily  on  her  father’s  bosom. 

The  tears  stood  thick  in  Sarah’s  eyes  as  they 
looked  on  her  master  and  on  the  little  hands  that 
lay  round  his  neck.  She  lingered  by  the  raised 
curtain,  heedless  of  the  risk  she  ran,  from  mo- 
ment to  moment,  of  being  discovered  and  ques- 
B Vol — 16 


34 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


tioned — lingered  until  she  heard  Captain  Trever- 
ton  say  soothingly  to  the  child: 

4 ‘ Hush,  Rosie,  dear!  hush,  my  own  love! 
Don’t  cry  any  more  for  poor  mamma.  Think 
of  poor  papa,  and  try  to  comfort  him.” 

Simple  as  the  words  were,  quietly  and  tenderly 
as  they  were  spoken,  they  seemed  instantly  to 
deprive  Sarah  Leesonof  all  power  of  self-control. 
Reckless  whether  she  was  heard  or  not,  she  turned 
and  ran  into  the  passage  as  if  she  had  been  flying 
for  her  life.  Passing  the  candle  she  had  left 
there,  without  so  much  as  a look  at  it,  she  made 
for  the  stairs,  and  descended  them  with  headlong 
rapidity  to  the  kitchen-floor.  There  one  of  the 
servants  who  had  been  sitting  up  met  her,  and, 
with  a face  of  astonishment  and  alarm,  asked 
what  was  the  matter. 

“I’m  ill— I’m  faint — I want  air,”  she  an- 
swered, speaking  thickly  and  confusedly.  “Open 
the  garden  door  and  let  me  out.” 

The  man  obeyed,  but  doubtfully,  as  if  he 
thought  her  unfit  to  be  trusted  by  herself. 

“She  gets  stranger  than  ever  in  her  ways,”  he 
said,  when  he  rejoined  his  fellow- servant,  after 
Sarah  had  hurried  past  him  into  the  open  air. 
“Now  our  mistress  is  dead,  she  will  have  to  find 
another  place,  I suppose.  I,  for  one,  shan’t  break 
my  heart  when  she’s  gone.  Shall  you?” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


35 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  HIDING  OF  THE  SECRET. 

The  cool,  sweet  air  in  the  garden,  blowing 
freshly  over  Sarah’s  face,  seemed  to  calm  the 
violence  of  her  agitation.  She  turned  down  a 
side  walk,  which  led  to  a terrace  and  overlooked 
the  church  of  the  neighboring  village. 

The  daylight  out  of  doors  was  clear  already. 
The  misty  auburn  light  that  goes  before  sunrise 
was  flowing  up,  peaceful  and  lovely,  behind  a 
line  of  black- brown  moorland,  overall  the  eastern 
sky.  The  old  church,  with  the  hedge  of  myrtle 
and  fuchsia  growing  round  the  little  cemetery  in 
all  the  luxuriance  which  is  only  seen  in  Cornwall, 
was  clearing  and  brightening  to  view,  almost  as 
fast  as  the  morning  firmament  itself.  Sarah 
leaned  her  arms  heavily  on  the  back  of  a gar- 
den-seat,  and  turned  her  face  toward  the  church. 
Her  eyes  wandered  from  the  building  itself  to 
the  cemetery  by  its  side,  rested  there,  and  watched 
the  light  growing  warmer  and  warmer  over  the 
lonesome  refuge  where  the  dead  lay  at  rest. 

4 ‘Oh,  my  heart!  my  heart!”  she  said.  “What 
must  it  be  made  of  not  to  break?” 

She  remained  for  some  time  leaning  on  the 
seat,  looking  sadly  toward  the  churchyard,  and 
pondering  over  the  words  which  she  had  heard 
Captain  Treverton  say  to  the  child.  They  seemed 
to  connect  themselves,  as  everything  else  now 


36 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


appeared  to  connect  itself  in  her  mind,  with  the 
letter  that  had  been  written  on  Mrs.  Treverton’s 
death-bed.  She  drew  it  from  her  bosom  once 
more,  and  crushed  it  up  angrily  in  her  fingers. 

“Still  in  my  hands!  still  not  seen  by  any  eyes 
but  mine!”  she  said,  looking  down  at  the  crum- 
pled pages.  “Is  it  all  my  fault?  If  she  was 
alive  now — if  she  had  seen  what  I saw,  if  she 
had  heard  what  I heard  in  the  nursery — could 
she  expect  me  to  give  him  the  letter?” 

Her  mind  was  apparently  steadied  by  the  re- 
flection which  her  last  words  expressed.  She 
moved  away  thoughtfully  from  the  garden-seat, 
crossed  the  terrace,  descended  some  wooden  steps, 
and  followed  a shrubbery  path  which  led  round 
by  a winding  track  from  the  east  to  the  north 
side  of  the  house. 

This  part  of  the  building  had  been  uninhabited 
and  neglected  for  more  than  half  a century  past. 
In  the  time  of  Captain  Treverton’s  father  the 
whole  range  of  the  north  rooms  had  been 
stripped  of  their  finest  pictures  and  their  most 
valuable  furniture,  to  assist  in  redecorating  the 
west  rooms,  which  now  formed  the  only  inhabited 
part  of  the  house,  and  which  were  amply  suffi- 
cient for  the  accommodation  of  the  family  and 
of  any  visitors  who  came  to  stay  with  them. 
The  mansion  had  been  originally  built  in  the 
form  of  a square,  and  had  been  strongly  forti- 
fied. Of  the  many  defenses  of  the  place,  but 
one  now  remained — a heavy,  low  tower  (from 
which  and  from  the  village  near,  the  house  de- 
rived its  name  of  Porthgenna  Tower),  standing 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


37 


at  the  southern  extremity  of  the  west  front. 
The  south  side  itself  consisted  of  stables  and 
outhouses,  with  a ruinous  wall  in  front  of 
them,  which,  running  back  eastward  at  right 
angles,  joined  the  north  side,  and  so  completed, 
the  square  which  the  whole  outline  of  the  build- 
ing represented. 

The  outside  view  of  the  range  of  north  rooms, 
from  the  weedy,  deserted  garden  below,  showed 
plainly  enough  that  many  years  had  passed  since 
any  human  creature  had  inhabited  them.  The 
window-panes  were  broken  in  some  places,  and 
covered  thickly  with  dirt  and  dust  in  others. 
Here,  the  shutters  were  closed — there,  they  were 
only  half  opened.  The  untrained  ivy,  the  rank 
vegetation  growing  in  fissures  of  the  stone-work, 
the  festoons  of  spiders’  webs,  the  rubbish  of 
wood,  bricks,  plaster,  broken  glass,  rags,  and 
strips  of  soiled  cloth,  which  lay  beneath  the  win- 
dows, all  told  the  same  tale  of  neglect.  Shad- 
owed by  its  position,  this  ruinous  side  of  the 
house  had  a dark,  cold,  wintry  aspect,  even 
on  the  sunny  August  morning  when  Sarah 
Leeson  strayed  into  the  deserted  northern  gar- 
den. Lost  in  the  labyrinth  of  her  own  thoughts, 
she  moved  slowly  past  flower-beds,  long  since 
rooted  up,  and  along  gravel  walks  overgrown 
by  weeds;  her  eyeswandering  mechanically  over 
the  prospect,  her  feet  mechanically  carrying  her 
on  wherever  there  was  a trace  of  a footpath,  lead 
where  it  might. 

The  shock  which  the  words  spoken  by  her 
master  in  the  nursery  had  communicated  to 


38 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


her  mind,  had  set  her  whole  nature,  so  to  speak, 
at  bay,  and  had  roused  in  her,  at  last,  the  moral 
courage  to  arm  herself  with  a final  and  desperate 
resolution.  Wandering  more  and  more  slowly 
along  the  pathways  of  the  forsaken  garden,  as 
the  course  of  her  ideas  withdrew  her  more  and 
more  completely  from  all  outward  things,  she 
stopped  insensibly  on  an  open  patch  of  ground^ 
which  had  once  been  a well-kept  lawn,  and  which 
still  commanded  a full  view  of  the  long  range  of 
uninhabited  north  rooms. 

“What  binds  me  to  give  the  letter  to  my  mas- 
ter at  all?”  she  thought  to  herself,  smoothing  out 
the  crumpled  paper  dreamily  in  the  palm  of  her 
hand.  “My  mistress  died  without  making  me 
swear  to  do  that.  Can  she  visit  it  on  me  from 
the  other  world,  if  I keep  the  promises  I swore 
to  observe,  and  do  no  more?  May  I not  risk  the 
worst  that  can  happen,  so  long  as  I hold  re- 
ligiously to  all  that  I undertook  to  do  on  my 
oath?” 

She  paused  here  in  reasoning  with  herself — 
her  superstitious  fears  still  influencing  her  out 
of  doors,  in  the  daylight,  as  they  had  influenced 
her  in  her  own  room,  in  the  time  of  darkness. 
She  paused — then  fell  to  smoothing  the  letter 
again,  and  began  to  recall  the  terms  of  the 
solemn  engagement  which  Mrs.  Treverton  had 
forced  her  to  contract. 

What  had  she  actually  bound  herself  to  do? 
ISTot  to  destroy  the  letter,  and  not  to  take  it  away 
with  her  if  she  left  the  house.  Beyond  that,  Mrs. 
Treverton ’s  desire  had  been  that  the  letter  should 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


39 


be  given  to  her  husband.  Was  that  last  wish 
binding  on  the  person  to  whom  it  had  been  con- 
fided? Yes.  As  binding  as  an  oath?  No. 

As  she  arrived  at  that  conclusion,  she  looked  up. 

At  first  her  eyes  rested  vacantly  on  the  lonely, 
deserted  north  front  of  the  house;  gradually  they 
became  attracted  by  one  particular  window  ex- 
actly  in  the  middle,  on  the  floor  above  the  ground 
—the  largest  and  the  gloomiest  of  all  the  row; 
suddenly  they  brightened  with  an  expression  of 
intelligence.  She  started ; a faint  flush  of  color 
flew  into  her  cheeks,  and  she  hastily  advanced 
closer  to  the  wall  of  the  house. 

The  panes  of  the  large  window  were  yellow 
with  dust  and  dirt,  and  festooned  about  fantas- 
tically with  cobwebs.  Below  it  was  a heap  of 
rubbish,  scattered  over  the  dry  mould  of  what 
might  once  have  been  a bed  of  flowers  or  shrubs. 
The  form  of  the  bed  was  still  marked  out  by  an 
oblong  boundary  of  weeds  and  rank  grass.  She 
followed  it  irresolutely  all  round,  looking  up  at 
the  window  at  every  step — then  stopped  close 
under  it,  glanced  at  the  letter  in  her  hand,  and 
said  to  herself  abruptly — 

“I’ll  risk  it!” 

As  the  words  fell  from  her  lips,  she  hastened 
back  to  the  inhabited  part  of  the  house,  followed 
the  passage  on  the  kitchen-floor  which  led  to  the 
housekeeper’s  room,  entered  it,  and  took  down 
from  a nail  in  the  wall  a bunch  of  keys,  having 
a large  ivory  label  attached  to  the  ring  that  con- 
nected them,  on  which  was  inscribed,  “Keys  of 
the  North  Rooms.” 


* 


40 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


She  placed  the  keys  on  a writing-table  near 
her,  took  up  a pen,  and  rapidly  added  these 
lines  on  the  blank  side  of  the  letter  which  she 
had  written  under  her  mistress’s  dictation — 

“If  this  paper  should  ever  be  found  (which  I 
pray  with  my  whole  heart  it  never  may  be), 
I wish  to  say  that  I have  come  to  the  resolu- 
tion of  hiding  it,  because  I dare  not  show  the 
writing  that  it  contains  to  my  master,  to  whom 
it  is  addressed.  In  doing  what  1 now  propose 
to  do,  though  I am  acting  against  my  mistress’s 
last  wishes,  I am  not  breaking  the  solemn  en- 
gagement which  she  obliged  me  to  make  before 
her  on  her  death-bed.  That  engagement  forbids 
me  to  destroy  this  letter,  or  to  take  it  away  with 
me  if  I leave  the  house.  I shall  do  neither — my 
purpose  is  to  conceal  it  in  the  place,  of  all  others, 
where  I think  there  is  least  chance  of  its  ever 
being  found  again.  Any  hardship  or  misfortune 
which  may  follow  as  a consequence  of  this  de- 
ceitful proceeding  on  my  part,  will  fall  on  my- 
self. Others,  I believe  in  my  conscience,  will 
be  the  happier  for  the  hiding  of  the  dreadful 
Secret  which  this  letter  contains.” 

She  signed  those  lines  with  her  name — pressed 
them  hurriedly  over  the  blotting-pad  that  lay 
with  the  rest  of  the  writing  materials  on  the 
table — took  the  note  in  her  hand,  after  first 
folding  it  up — and  then,  snatching  at  the  bunch 
of  keys,  with  a look  all  round  her  as  if  she 
dreaded  being  secretly  observed,  left  the  room. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


41 


All  her  actions  since  she  had  entered  it  had  been 
hast}T  and  sadden;  she  was  evidently  afraid  of 
allowing  herself  one  leisure  moment  to  re- 
flect. 

On  quitting  the  housekeeper’s  room,  she  turned 
to  the  left,  ascended  a back  staircase,  and  un- 
locked a door  at  the  top  of  it.  A cloud  of  dust 
flew  all  about  her  as  she  softly  opened  the  door; 
a mouldy  coolness  made  her  shiver  as  she  crossed 
a large  stone  hall,  with  some  black  old  family 
portraits  hanging  on  the  walls,  the  canvasses  of 
which  were  bulging  out  of  the  frames.  Ascend- 
ing more  stairs,  she  came  upon  a row  of  doors, 
all  leading  into  rooms  on  the  first  floor  of  the 
north  side  of  the  house. 

She  knelt  down,  putting  the  letter  on  the 
boards  beside  her,  opposite  the  key-hole  of  the 
fourth  door  she  came  to  after  reaching  the  top 
of  the  stairs,  peered  in  distrustfully  for  an  in- 
stant, then  began  to  try  the  different  keys  till 
she  found  one  that  fitted  the  lock.  She  had  great 
difficulty  in  accomplishing  this,  from  the  violence 
of  her  agitation,  which  made  her  hands  tremble 
to  such  a degree  that  she  was  hardly  able  to  keep 
the  keys  separate  one  from  the  ether.  At  length 
she  succeeded  in  opening  the  door.  Thicker  clouds 
of  dust  than  she  had  yet  met  with  flew  out  the  mo- 
ment the  interior  of  the  room  was  visible;  a dry, 
airless,  suffocating  atmosphere  almost  choked 
her  as  she  stooped  to  pick  up  the  letter  from  the 
floor.  She  recoiled  from  it  at  first,  and  took  a 
few  steps  back  toward  the  staircase.  But  she 
recovered  her  resolution  immediately. 


42  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

“I  can’t  go  back  now!”  she  said,  desperately, 
and  entered  the  room. 

She  did  not  remain  in  it  more  than  two  or 
three  minutes.  When  she  came  out  again  her 
face  was  white  with  fear,  and  the  hand  which 
had  held  the  letter  when  she  went  into  the  room 
held  nothing  now  but  a small  rusty  key. 

After  locking  the  door  again,  she  examined 
the  large  bunch  of  keys  which  she  had  taken 
from  the  housekeeper’s  room,  with  closer  atten- 
tion than  she  had  yet  bestowed  on  them. 

Besides  the  ivory  label  attached  to  the  ring 
that  connected  them,  there  were  smaller  labels, 
of  parchment,  tied  to  the  handles  of  some  of  the 
keys,  to  indicate  the  rooms  to  which  they  gave 
admission.  The  particular  key  which  she  had 
used  had  one  of  these  labels  hanging  to  it.  She 
held  the  little  strip  of  parchment  close  to  the 
light,  and  read  on  it,  in  written  characters 
faded  by  time— 

“ The  Myrtle  Room  ” 

The  room  in  which  the  letter  was  hidden  had 
a name,  then ! A prettily  sounding  name  that 
would  attract  most  people,  and  keep  pleasantly 
in  their  memories.  A name  to  be  distrusted 
by  her,  after  what  she  had  done,  on  that  very 
account. 

She  took  her  housewife  from  its  usual  place  in 
the  pocket  of  her  apron,  and,  with  the  scissors 
which  it  contained,  cut  the  label  from  the  key. 
Was  it  enough  to  destroy  that  one  only?  She 
lost  herself  in  a maze  of  useless  conjecture;  and 
ended  by  cutting  off  the  other  labels,  from  no 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


43 


other  motive  than  instinctive  suspicion  of 
them. 

Carefully  gathering  up  the  strips  of  parchment 
from  the  floor,  she  put  them,  along  with  the  little 
rusty  key  which  she  had  brought  out  of  the  Myrtle 
Room,  in  the  empty  pocket  of  her  apron.  Then, 
carrying  the  large  bunch  of  keys  in  her  hand, 
and  carefully  locking  the  doors  that  she  had 
opened  on  her  way  to  the  north  side  of  Porth- 
genna  Tower,  she  retraced  her  steps  to  the  house- 
. keeper’s  room,  entered  it  without  seeing  anybody, 
and  hung  up  the  bunch  of  keys  again  on  the  nail 
in  the  wall. 

Fearful,  as  the  morning  hours  wore  on,  of 
meeting  with  some  of  the  female  servants,  she 
next  hastened  back  to  her  bedroom.  The  candle 
she  had  left  there  was  still  burning  feebly  in  the 
fresh  daylight.  When  she  drew  aside  the  win- 
dow-curtain, after  extinguishing  the  candle,  a 
shadow  of  her  former  fear  passed  over  her  face, 
even  in  the  broad  daylight  that  now  flowed  in 
upon  it.  She  opened  the  window,  and  leaned 
out  eagerly  into  the  cool  air. 

Whether  for  good  or  for  evil,  the  fatal  Secret 
was  hidden  now — the  act  was  done.  There  was 
something  calming  in  the  first  consciousness  of 
that  one  fact.  She  could  think  more  composedly, 
after  that,  of  herself,  and  of  the  uncertain  future 
that  lay  before  her. 

Under  no  circumstances  could  she  have  ex- 
pected to  remain  in  her  situation,  now  that  the 
connection  between  herself  and  her  mistress  had 
been  severed  by  death.  She  knew  that  Mrs. 


44 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Treverton,  in  the  last  days  of  her  illness,  had 
earnestly  recommended  her  maid  to  Captain 
Treverton’s  kindness  and  protection,  and  she 
felt  assured  that  the  wife’s  last  entreaties,  in 
this  as  in  all  other  instances,  would  be  viewed 
as  the  most  sacred  of  obligations  by  the  husband. 
But  could  she  accept  protection  and  kindness  at 
the  hand  of  the  master  whom  she  had  been  acces- 
sory to  deceiving,  and  whom  she  had  now  com- 
mitted herself  to  deceiving  still?  The  bare  idea 
of  such  baseness  was  so  revolting  that  she  ac- 
cepted, almost  with  a sense  of  relief,  the  one  sad 
alternative  that  remained  — the  alternative  of 
leaving  the  house  immediately. 

And  how  was  she  to  leave  it?  By  giving 
formal  warning,  and  so  exposing  herself  to  ques- 
tions which  would  be  sure  to  confuse  and  terrify 
her?  Could  she  venture  to  face  her  master  again, 
after  what  she  had  done — to  face  him,  when  his 
first  inquiries  would  refer  to  her  mistress,  when 
he  would  be  certain  to  ask  her  for  the  last  mourn- 
ful details,  for  the  slightest  word  that  had  been 
spoken  during  the  death-scene  that  she  alone  had 
witnessed?  She  started  to  her  feet,  as  the  cer- 
tain consequences  of  submitting  herself  to  that 
unendurable  trial  all  crowded  together  warningly 
on  her  mind,  took  her  cloak  from  its  place  on  the 
wall,  and  listened  at  her  door  in  sudden  suspicion 
and  fear.  Had  she  heard  footsteps?  Was  her 
master  sending  for  her  already? 

No;  all  was  silent  outside.  A few  tears  rolled 
over  her  cheeks  as  she  put  on  her  bonnet,  and  felt 
that  she  was  facing,  by  the  performance  of  that 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


45 


simple  action,  the  last,  and  perhaps  the  hardest 
to  meet,  of  the  cruel  necessities  in  which  the  hid- 
ing of  the  Secret  had  involved  her.  There  was 
no  help  for  it.  She  must  run  the  risk  of  betray- 
ing everything,  or  brave  the  double  trial  of  leav- 
ing Porthgenna  Tower,  and  leaving  it  secretly. 

Secretly — as  a thief  might  go?  Without  a 
word  to  her  master?  without  so  much  as  one 
line  of  writing  to  thank  him  for  his  kindness 
and  to  ask  his  pardon?  She  had  unlocked  her 
desk,  and  had  taken  from  it  her  purse,  one  or 
two  letters,  and  a little  book  of  Wesley’s  Hymns, 
before  these  considerations  occurred  to  her.  They 
made  her  pause  in  the  act  of  shutting  up  the  desk. 
“Shall  I write?”  she  asked  herself,  “and  leave 
the  letter  here,  to  be  found  when  I am  gone?” 

A little  more  reflection  decided  her  in  the 
affirmative.  As  rapidly  as  her  pen  could  form 
the  letters  she  wrote  a few  lines  addressed  to  Cap- 
tain Treverton,  in  which  she  confessed  to  having 
kept  a secret  from  his  knowledge  which  had  been 
left  in  her  charge  to  divulge;  adding,  that  she 
honestly  believed  no  harm  could  come  to  him, 
or  to  any  one  in  whom  he  was  interested,  by  her 
failing  to  perform  the  duty  intrusted  to  her;  and 
ended  by  asking  his  pardon  for  leaving  the  house 
secretly,  and  by  begging,  as  a last  favor,  that  no 
search  might  ever  be  made  for  her.  Having 
sealed  this  short  note,  and  left  it  on  the  table, 
with  her  master’s  name  written  outside,  she  list- 
ened again  at  the  door;  and,  after  satisfying  her- 
self that  no  one  was  yet  stirring,  began  to  descend 
the  stairs  at  Porthgenna  Tower  for  the  last  time. 


46 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


At  the  entrance  of  the  passage  leading  to  the 
nursery  she  stopped.  The  tears  which  she  had 
restrained  since  leading  her  room  began  to  flow 
again.  Urgent  as  her  reasons  now  were  for 
effecting  her  departure  without  a moment’s  less 
of  time,  she  advanced,  with  the  strangest  incon- 
sistency, a few  steps  toward  the  nursery  door. 
Before  she  had  gone  far,  a slight  noise  in  the 
lower  part  of  the  house  caught  her  ear  and  in- 
stantly checked  her  further  progress. 

While  she  stood  doubtful,  the  grief  at  her  heart 
— a greater  grief  than  any  she  had  yet  betrayed 
—rose  irresistibly  to  her  lips,  and  burst  from 
them  in  one  deep  gasping  sob.  The  sound  of  it 
seemed  to  terrify  her  into  a sense  of  the  danger 
of  her  position,  if  she  delayed  a moment  longer. 
She  ran  out  again  to  the  stairs,  reached  the 
kitchen- floor  in  safety,  and  made  her  escape  by 
the  garden  door  which  the  servant  had  opened 
for  her  at  the  dawn  of  the  morning. 

On  getting  clear  of  the  premises  at  Porthgenna 
Tower,  instead  of  taking  the  nearest  path  over 
the  moor  that  led  to  the  high-road,  she  diverged 
to  the  church;  but  stopped  before  she  came  to  it, 
at  the  public  well  of  the  neighborhood,  which 
had  been  sunk  near  the  cottages  of  the  Porth- 
genna fishermen.  Cautiously  looking  round 
her,  she  dropped  into  the  well  the  little  rusty 
key  which  she  had  brought  out  of  the  Myrtle 
Room;  then  hurried  on,  and  entered  the  church- 
yard. She  directed  her  course  straight  to  one  of 
the  graves,  situated  a little  apart  from  the  rest. 
On  the  headstone  were  inscribed  these  words: 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


47 


SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY 
OF 

Ijugl)  J)  0 1 10  f)  e a i, 

AGED  26  YEARS. 

HE  MET  WITH  HIS  DEATH 
THROUGH  THE  FALL  OF  A ROCK 
IN 

PORTHGENNA  MINE, 

DECEMBER  1?TH,  1823. 

Gathering  a few  leaves  of  grass  from  the 
grave,  Sarah  opened  the  little  book  of  Wes- 
ley’s Hymns  which  she  had  brought  with  her 
from  the  bedroom  of  Porthgenna  Tower,  and 
placed  the  leaves  delicately  and  carefully  be- 
tween the  pages.  As  she  did  this,  the  wind 
blew  open  the  title-page  of  the  Hymns,  and  dis- 
played this  inscription  on  it,  written  in  large, 
clumsy  characters— “ Sarah  Leeson,  her  book. 
The  gift  of  Hugh  Pol  wheal.” 

Having  secured  the  blades  of  grass  between 
the  pages  of  the  book,  she  retraced  her  way  to- 
ward the  path  leading  to  the  high-road.  Arrived 
on  the  moor,  she  took  out  of  her  apron  pocket  the 
parchment  labels  that  had  been  cut  from  the  keys, 
and  scattered  them  under  the  furze-bushes. 

“Gone,”  she  said,  “as  I am  gone!  God  help 
and  forgive  me — it  is  all  done  and  over  now!” 
With  those  words  she  turned  her  back  on  the 
old  house  and  the  sea- view  below  it,  and  followed 
the  moorland  path  on  her  way  to  the  high-road. 


48 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Four  hours  afterward  Captain  Treverton  de- 
sired one  of  the  servants  at  Purthgenna  Tower 
to  inform  Sarah  Leeson  that  he  wished  to  hear 
all  she  had  to  tell  him  of  the  dying  moments  of 
her  mistress.  The  messenger  returned  with  looks 
and  words  of  amazement,  and  with  the  letter  that 
Sarah  had  addressed  to  her  master  in  his  hand. 

The  moment  Captain  Treverton  had  read  the 
letter,  he  ordered  an  immediate  search  to  be 
made  after  the  missing  woman.  She  was  so 
easy  to  describe  and  to  recognize,  by  the  prema- 
ture grayness  of  her  hair,  by  the  odd,  scared  look 
in  her  eyes,  and  by  her  habit  of  constantly  talk- 
ing to  herself,  that  she  was  traced  with  certainty 
as  far  as  Truro.  In  that  large  town  the  track  of 
her  was  lost,  and  never  recovered  again. 

Rewards  were  offered ; the  magistrates  of  the 
district  were  interested  in  the  case ; all  that  wealth 
and  power  could  do  to  discover  her  was  done — 
and  done  in  vain.  No  clew  was  found  to  sug- 
gest a suspicion  of  her  whereabouts,  or  to  help 
in  the  slightest  degree  toward  explaining  the 
nature  of  the  secret  at  which  she  had  hinted  in 
her  letter.  Her  master  never  saw  her  again, 
never  heard  of  her  again,  after  the  morning  of 
the  twenty-third  of  August,  eighteen  hundred 
and  twenty-nine. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


49 


BOOK  //. 


CHAPTER  I. 

FIFTEEN  YEARS  AFTER 

The  church  of  Long  Beckley  (a  large  agricul- 
tural village  in  one  of  the  midland  counties  of 
England),  although  a building  in  no  way  re- 
markable either  for  its  size,  its  architecture,  or 
its  antiquity,  possesses,  nevertheless,  one  advan- 
tage which  mercantile  London  has  barbarously 
denied  to  the  noble  cathedral  church  of  St.  Paul. 
It  has  plenty  of  room  to  stand  in,  and  it  can  con- 
sequently be  seen  with  perfect  convenience  from 
every  point  of  view,  all  around  the  compass. 

The  large  open, space  around  the  church  can  be 
approached  in  three  different  directions.  There 
is  a road  from  the  village,  leading  straight  to  the 
principal  door.  There  is  a broad  gravel  walk, 
which  begins  at  the  vicarage  gates,  crosses  the 
churchyard,  and  stops,  as  in  duty  bound,  at 
the  vestry  entrance.  There  is  a footpath  over 
the  fields,  by  which  the  lord  of  the  manor,  and 
the  gentry  in  general  who  live  in  his  august 
neighborhood,  can  reach  the  side  door  of  the 
building,  whenever  their  natural  humility  may 
incline  them  to  encourage  Sabbath  observance 
in  the  stables  by  going  to  church,  like  the  lower 
sort  of  worshipers,  on  their  own  legs. 


50 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


At  half-past  seven  o’clock  on  a certain  fine 
summer  morning,  in  the  year  eighteen  hundred 
and  forty-four,  if  any  observant  stranger  had 
happened  to  be  standing  in  some  unnoticed  cor- 
ner of  the  churchyard,  and  to  be  looking  about 
him  with  sharp  eyes,  he  would  probably  have 
been  the  witness  of  proceedings  which  might 
have  led  him  to  believe  that  there  was  a con- 
spiracy going  on  in  Long  Beckley,  of  which  the 
church  was  the  rallying-point,  and  some  of  the 
most  respectable  inhabitants  the  principal  lead- 
ers. Supposing  him  to  have  been  looking  for- 
ward toward  the  vicarage  as  the  clock  chimed 
the  half-hour,  he  would  have  seen  the  vicar  of 
Long  Beckley,  the  Reverend  Doctor  Chennery, 
leaving  his  house  suspiciously,  by  the  back  way, 
glancing  behind  him  guiltily  as  he  approached 
the  gravel  walk  that  led  to  the  vestry,  stopping 
mysteriously  just  outside  the  door,  and  gazing 
anxiously  down  the  road  that  led  from  the  village. 

Assuming  that  our  observant  stranger  would, 
upon  this,  keep  out  of  sight,  and  look  down  the 
road,  like  the  vicar,  he  would  next  have  seen  the 
clerk  of  the  church — an  austere,  yellow-faced 
man — a Protestant  Loyola  in  appearance,  and  a 
working  shoemaker  by  trade — approaching  with 
a look  of  unutterable  mystery  in  his  face,  and  a 
bunch  of  big  keys  in  his  hands.  He  would  have 
seen  the  vicar  nod  in  an  abstracted  manner  to  the 
clerk,  and  say:  “Fine  morning,  Thomas.  Have 
you  had  your  breakfast  yet?”  He  would  have 
heard  Thomas  reply,  with  a suspicious  regard 
for  minute  particulars:  “I  have  had  a cup  of  tea 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


51 


and  a crust,  sir.”  And  he  would  then  have  seen 
these  two  local  conspirators,  after  looking  up 
with  one  accord  at  the  church  clock,  draw  off 
together  to  the  side  door  which  commanded  a 
view  of  the  footpath  across  the  fields. 

Following  them — as  our  inquisitive  stranger 
could  not  fail  to  do— he  would  have  detected  three 
more  conspirators  advancing  along  the  footpath. 
The  leader  of  this  treasonable  party  was  an  elderly 
gentleman,  with  a weather  - beaten  face  and  a 
bluff,  hearty  manner.  His  two  followers  were 
a young  gentleman  and  a young  lady,  walking 
arm-in-arm,  and  talking  together  in  whispers. 
They  were  dressed  in  the  plainest  morning  cos- 
tume. The  faces  of  both  were  rather  pale,  and 
the  manner  of  the  lady  was  a little  flurried. 
Otherwise  there  was  nothing  remarkable  to  ob- 
serve in  them,  until  they  came  to  the  wicket- 
gate  leading  into  the  churchyard;  and  there  the 
conduct  of  the  young  gentleman  seemed,  at  first 
sight,  rather  inexplicable.  Instead  of  holding 
the  gate  open  for  the  lady  to  pass  through,  he 
hung  back,  allowed  her  to  open  it  for  herself, 
waited  till  she  had  got  to  the  churchyard  side, 
and  then,  stretching  out  his  hand  over  the  gate, 
allowed  her  to  lead  him  through  the  entrance,  as 
if  he  had  suddenly  changed  from  a grown  man 
to  a helpless  little  child. 

Noting  this,  and  remarking  also  that,  when 
the  party  from  the  fields  had  arrived  within 
greeting  distance  of  the  vicar,  and  when  the 
clerk  had  used  his  bunch  of  keys  to  open  the 
church-door,  the  young  lady’s  companion  was 


52 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


led  into  the  building  (this  time  by  Doctor  Chen- 
nery’s.  hand),  as  he  had  been  previously  led 
through  the  wicket-gate,  our  observant  stranger 
must  have  arrived  at  one  inevitable  conclusion 
— that  the  person  requiring  such  assistance  as 
this  was  suffering  under  the  affliction  of  blind- 
ness. Startled  a little  by  that  discovery,  he 
would  have  been  still  further  amazed,  if  he  had 
looked  into  the  church,  by  seeing  the  blind  man 
and  the  young  lady  standing  together  before  the 
altar  rails,  with  the  elderly  gentleman  in  parental 
attendance.  Any  suspicions  he  might  now  en- 
tertain that  the  bond  which  united  the  conspira- 
tors at  that  early  hour  of  the  morning  was  of  the 
hymeneal  sort,  and  that  the  object  of  their  plot 
was  to  celebrate  a wedding  with  the  strictest 
secrecy,  would  have  been  confirmed  in  five  min- 
utes by  the  appearance  of  Doctor  Chennery  from 
the  vestry  in  full  canonicals,  and  by  the  reading 
of  the  marriage  service  in  the  reverend  gentle- 
man’s most  harmonious  officiating  tones.  The 
ceremony  concluded,  the  attendant  stranger  must 
have  been  more  perplexed  than  ever  by  observing 
that  the  persons  concerned  in  it  all  separated, 
the  moment  the  signing,  the  kissing  and  con- 
gratulating duties  proper  to  the  occasion  had 
been  performed,  and  quickly  retired  in  the  vari- 
ous directions  by  which  they  had  approached  the 
church. 

Leaving  the  clerk  to  return  by  the  village 
road,  the  bride,  bridegroom  and  elderly  gentle- 
man to  turn  back  by  the  footpath  over  the  fields, 
and  the  visionary  stranger  of  these  pages  to  van- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


53 


ish  out  of  them  in  any  direction  that  he  pleases 
— let  us  follow  Doctor  Chennery  to  the  vicarage 
breakfast-table,  and  hear  what  he  has  to  say 
about  his  professional  exertions  of  the  morning 
in  the  familiar  atmosphere  of  his  own  family 
circle. 

The  persons  assembled  at  the  breakfast  were, 
first,  Mr.  Phippen,  a guest;  secondly,  Miss 
Sturch,  a governess;  thirdly,  fourthly  and 
fifthly,  Miss  Louisa  Chennery  (aged  eleven 
years),  Miss  Amelia  Chennery  (aged  nine 
years),  and  Master  Robert  Chennery  (aged 
eight  years).  There  was  no  mother’s  face 
present  to  make  the  household  picture  com- 
plete. Doctor  Chennery  had  been  a widower 
since  the  birth  of  his  youngest  child. 

The  guest  was  an  old  college  acquaintance  of 
the  vicar’s,  and  he  was  supposed  to  be  now  stay- 
ing at  Long  Beckley  for  the  benefit  of  his  health. 
Most  men  of  any  character  at  all  contrive  to  get 
a reputation  of  some  sort  which  individualizes 
them  in  the  social  circle  amid  which  they  move. 
Mr.  Phippen  was  a man  of  some  little  character, 
and  he  lived  with  great  distinction  in  the  estima- 
tion  of  his  friends  on  the  reputation  of  being  A 
Martyr  to  Dyspepsia. 

Wherever  Mr.  Phippen  went,  the  woes  of  Mr. 
Phippen’s  stomach  went  with  him.  He  dieted 
himself  publicly,  and  physicked  himself  publicly. 
He  was  so  intensely  occupied  with  himself  and 
his  maladies,  that  he  would  let  a chance  acquain- 
tance into  the  secret  of  the  condition  of  his  tongue 
at  five  minutes’  notice;  being  just  as  perpetually 


54 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


ready  to  discuss  the  state  of  his  digestion  as  peo- 
ple in  general  are  to  discuss  the  state  of  the 
weather.  Ou  this  favorite  subject,  as  on  all 
others,  he  spoke  with  a wheedling  gentleness 
of  manner,  sometimes  in  softly  mournful,  some- 
times in  languidly  sentimental  tones.  His  po- 
liteness was  of  the  oppressively  affectionate  sort, 
and  he  used  the  word  4 ‘dear”  continually  in  ad- 
dressing himself  to  others.  Personally,  he  could 
not  be  called  a handsome  man.  His  eyes  were 
watery,  large,  and  light  gray;  they  were  always 
rolling  from  side  to  side  in  a state  of  moist  ad- 
miration of  something  or  somebody.  His  nose 
was  long,  drooping,  profoundly  melancholy — if 
such  an  expression  may  be  pormitted  in  reference 
to  that  particular  feature.  For  the  rest,  his  lips 
had  a lachrymose  twist;  his  stature  was  small; 
his  head  large,  bald,  and  loosely  set  on  his  shoul- 
ders ; his  manner  of  dressing  himself  eccentric, 
on  the  side  of  smartness;  his  age  about  five-and- 
forty;  his  condition  that  of  a single  man.  Such 
was  Mr.  Phippen,  the  Martyr  to  Dyspepsia,  and 
the  guest  of  the  vicar  of  Long  Beckley. 

Miss  Sturch,  the  governess,  may  be  briefly  and 
accurately  described  as  a young  lady  who  had 
never  been  troubled  with  an  idea  or  a sensation 
since  the  day  when  she  was  born.  She  was  a 
little,  plump,  quiet,  white  - skinned,  smiling, 
neatly-dressed  girl,  wound  up  accurately  to  the 
performance  of  certain  duties  at  certain  times; 
and  possessed  of  an  inexhaustible  vocabulary  of 
commonplace  talk,  which  dribbled  placidly  out 
of  her  lips  whenever  it  was  called  for,  always  in 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


55 


the  same  quantity,  and  always  oi  the  same  qual- 
ity, at  every  hour  in  the  day,  and  through  every 
change  in  the  seasons.  Miss  Sturch  never  laughed, 
and  never  cried,  but  took  the  safe  middle  course 
of  smiling  perpetually*  She  smiled  when  she 
came  down  on  a morning  in  January,  and  said 
it  was  very  cold.  She  smiled  when  she  came 
down  on  a morning  in  July,  and  said  it  was 
very  hot.  She  smiled  when  the  bishop  came  once 
a year  to  see  the  vicar;  she  smiled  when  the 
butcher’s  boy  came  every  morning  for  orders. 
Let  what  might  happen  at  the  vicarage,  noth- 
ing ever  jerked  Miss  Sturch  out  of  the  one 
smooth  groove  in  which  she  ran  perpetually,  al- 
ways at  the  same  pace.  If  she  had  lived  in  a 
royalist  family,  during  the  civil  wars  in  En- 
gland, she  would  have  rung  for  the  cook,  to 
order  dinner,  on  the  morning  of  the  execution 
of  Charles  the  First.  If  Shakespeare  had  come 
back  to  life  again,  and  had  called  at  the  vicar- 
age at  six  o’clock  on  Saturday  evening,  to  ex- 
plain to  Miss  Sturch  exactly  what  his  views 
were  in  composing  the  tragedy  of  Hamlet,  she 
would  ha^e  smiled  and  said  it  was  [extremely 
interesting,  until  the  striking  of  seven  o’clock; 
at  which  time  she  would  have  left  him  in  the 
middle  of  a sentence,  to  superintend  the  house- 
maid in  the  verification  of  the  washing- book.  A 
very  estimable  young  person,  Miss  Sturch  (as 
the  ladies  of  Long  Beckley  were  accustomed  to 
say) ; so  judicious  with  the  children,  and  so  at- 
tached to  her  household  duties;  such  a well-regu- 
lated mind,  and  such  a crisp  touch  on  the  piano; 


56 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


just  nice-looking  enough,  just  well-dressed 
enough,  just  talkative  enough;  not  quite  old 
enough,  perhaps,  and  a little  too  much  inclined 
to  be  embraceably  plump  about  the  region  of 
the  waist— but,  on  the  whole,  a most  estimable 
young  person— very  much  so,  indeed. 

On  the  characteristic  peculiarities  of  Miss 
Sturch’s  pupils  it  is  not  necessary  to  dwell  at 
very  great  length.  Miss  Louisa’s  habitual  weak- 
ness was  an  inveterate  tendency  to  catch  cold. 
Miss  Amelia’s  principal  defect  was  a disposition 
to  gratify  her  palate  by  eating  supplementary 
dinners  and  breakfasts  at  unauthorized  times  and 
seasons.  Master  Robert’s  most  noticeable  fail- 
ings were  caused  by  alacrity  in  tearing  his  clothes 
and  obtuseness  in  learning  the  Multiplication 
Table.  The  virtues  of  all  three  were  of  much 
the  same  nature — they  were  well  grown,  they 
were  genuine  children,  and  they  were  boister- 
ously fond  of  Miss  Sturch. 

To  complete  the  gallery  of  family  portraits, 
an  outline,  at  the  least,  must  be  attempted  of 
the  vicar  himself.  Doctor  Chennery  was,  in  a 
physical  point  of  view,  a credit  to  the  Establish- 
ment to  which  he  was  attached.  He  stood  six 
feet  two  in  his  shooting-shoes;  he  weighed  fif- 
teen stone;  he  was  the  best  bowler  in  the  Long 
Beckley  cricket-club;  he  was  a strictly  orthodox 
man  in  the  matter  of  wine  and  mutton;  he  never 
started  disagreeable  theories  about  people’s  future 
destinies  in  the  pulpit,  never  quarreled  with  any- 
body out  of  the  pulpit,  never  buttoned  up  his 
pockets  when  the  necessities  of  his  poor  brethren 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


5 


(Dissenters  included)  pleaded  with  him  to  open 
them.  His  course  through  the  world  was  a steady 
march  along  the  high  and  dry  middle  of  a safe 
turnpike  road.  The  serpentine  side-paths  of  con- 
troversy might  open  as  alluringly  as  they  pleased 
on  his  right  hand  and  on  his  left,  but  he  kept  on 
his  way  sturdily,  and  never  regarded  them.  In- 
novating young  recruits  in  the  Church  army 
might  entrappingly  open  the  Thirty-nine  Arti- 
cles under  his  very  nose,  but  the  veteran’s  wary 
eye  never  looked  a hair-breadth  further  than  his 
own  signature  at  the  bottom  of  them.  He  knew 
as  little  as  possible  of  theology,  he  had  never 
given  the  Privy  Council  a minute’s  trouble,  in 
the  whole  course  of  his  life,  he  was  innocent  of 
all  meddling  with  the  reading  or  writing  of 
pamphlets,  and  he  was  quite  incapable  of  find- 
ing his  way  to  the  platform  of  Exeter  Hall.  In 
short,  he  was  the  most  unclerical  of  clergymen 
— but,  for  all  that,  he  had  such  a figure  for  a 
surplice  as  is  seldom  seen.  Fifteen  stone  weight 
of  upright  muscular  flesh,  without  an  angry  spot 
or  sore  place  in  any  part  of  it,  has  the  merit  of 
suggesting  stability,  at  any  rate — an  excellent 
virtue  in  pillars  of  all  kinds,  but  an  especially 
precious  quality,  at  the  present  time,  in  a pillar 
of  the  Church. 

As  soon  as  the  vicar  entered  the  breakfast- 
parlor  the  children  assailed  him  with  a chorus 
of  shouts.  He  was  a severe  disciplinarian  in  the 
observance  of  punctuality  at  meal-times;  and  he 
now  stood  convicted  by  the  clock  of  being  too 
late  for  breakfast  by  a quarter  of  an  hour. 


58 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“Sorry  to  have  kept  you  waiting,  Miss  Sturch,” 
said  the  vicar;  “but  I have  a good  excuse  for 
being  late  this  morning.” 

“Pray  don’t  mention  it,  sir, ’’said  Miss  Sturch, 
blandly  rubbing  her  plump  little  hands  one  over 
the  other.  “A  beautiful  morning.  I fear  we 
shall  have  another  warm  day — Robert,  my  love, 
your  elbow  is  on  the  table. — A beautiful  morn- 
ing, indeed!” 

“Stomach  still  out  of  order — eh,  Phippen?” 
asked  the  vicar,  beginning  to  carve  the  ham. 

Mr.  Phippen  shook  his  large  head  dolefully, 
placed  his  yellow  forefinger,  ornamented  with  a 
large  turquoise  ring,  on  the  center  check  of  his 
light-green  summer  waistcoat — looked  piteously 
at  Doctor  Chennery,  and  sighed — removed  the 
finger,  and  produced  from  the  breast  pocket  of 
his  wrapper  a little  mahogany  case — took  out  of 
it  a neat  pair  of  apothecary’s  scales,  with  the  ac- 
companying weights,  a morsel  of  ginger,  and  a 
highly  polished  silver  nutmeg-grater.  “Dear 
Miss  Sturch  will  pardon  an  invalid?”  said  Mr. 
Phippen,  beginning  to  grate  the  ginger  feebly 
into  the  nearest  tea-cup. 

“Guess  what  has  made  me  a quarter  of  an 
hour  late  this  morning,”  said  the  vicar,  looking 
mysteriously  all  round  the  table. 

“Lying  in  bed,  papa,”  cried  the  three  chil- 
dren, clapping  their  hands  in  triumph. 

“What  do  you  say,  Miss  Sturch?”  asked  Doc- 
tor Chennery. 

Miss  Sturch  smiled  as  usual,  rubbed  her  hands 
as  usual,  cleared  her  throat  softly  as  usual, 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


59 


looked  at  the  tea-urn,  and  begged,  with  the 
most  graceful  politeness,  to  be  excused  if  she 
said  nothing. 

“Your  turn  now,  Phippen,”  said  the  vicar. 
“Come,  guess  what  has  kept  me  late  this 
morning.” 

“My  dear  friend,”  said  Mr.  Phippen,  giving 
the  doctor  a brotherly  squeeze  of  the  hand, 
“don’t  ask  me  to  guess — I know!  I saw  what 
you  eat  at  dinner  yesterday — 1 saw  what  you 
drank  after  dinner.  No  digestion  could  stand  it 
— not  even  yours.  Guess  wha,t  has  made  you 
late  this  morning?  Pooh!  pooh!  I know.  You 
dear,  good  soul,  you  have  been  taking  physic!” 

“Haven’t  touched  a drop,  thank  God,  for  the 
last  ten  years!”  said  Doctor  Chennery,  with  a 
look  of  devout  gratitude.  “No,  no;  you’re  all 
wrong.  The  fact  is,  I have  been  to  church;  and 
what  do  you  think  I have  been  doing  there? 
Listen,  Miss  Sturch — listen,  girls,  with  all  your 
ears.  Poor  blind  young  Frankland  is  a happy 
man  at  last — I have  married  him  to  our  dear 
Rosamond  Treverton  this  very  morning!” 

“Without  telling  us,  papa!”  cried  the  two 
girls  together  in  their  shrillest  tones  of  vexation 
and  surprise.  “Without  telling  us,  when  you 
know  how  we  should  have  liked  to  see  it!” 

“That  was  the  very  reason  why  I did  not  tell 
you,  my  dears,”  answered  the  vicar.  “Young 
Frankland  has  not  got  so  used  to  his  affliction  yet, 
poor  fellow,  as  to  bear  being  publicly  pitied  and 
stared  at  in  the  character  of  a blind  bridegroom. 
He  had  such  a nervous  horror  of  being  an  object 


60 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


of  curiosity  on  his  wedding-day,  and  Rosamond, 
like  a kind-hearted  girl  as  she  is,  was  so  anxious 
that  his  slightest  caprices  should  be  humored, 
that  we  settled  to  have  the  wedding  at  an  hour 
in  the  morning  when  no  idlers  were  likely  to  be 
lounging  about  the  neighborhood  of  the  church. 
I was  bound  over  to  the  strictest  secrecy  about 
the  day,  and  so  was  my  clerk  Thomas.  Except- 
ing us  two,  and  the  bride  and  bridegroom,  and 
the  bride’s  father,  Captain  Treverton,  nobody 
knew — ” 

“Treverton!”  exclaimed  Mr.  Phippen,  hold- 
ing his  tea-cup,  with  the  grated  ginger  in  the 
bottom  of  it,  to  be  filled  by  Miss  Sturch.  “Trev- 
erton! (No  more  tea,  dear  Miss  Sturch,)  How 
very  remarkable ! I know  the  name.  (Fillup 
with  water,  if  you  please.)  Tell  me,  my  dear 
doctor  (many,  many  thanks;  no  sugar — it  turns 
acid  on  the  stomach),  is  this  Miss  Treverton 
whom  you  have  been  marrying  (many  thanks 
again;  no  milk,  either)  one  of  the  Cornish 
Trevertons?” 

“To  be  sure  she  is!”  rejoined  the  vicar. 
“Her  father,  Captain  Treverton,  is  the  head  of 
the  family.  Not  that  there’s  much  family  to 
speak  of  now.  The  Captain,  and  Rosamond, 
and  that  whimsical  old  brute  of  an  uncle  of 
hers,  Andrew  Treverton,  are  the  last  left  now 
of  the  old  stock— a rich  family,  and  a fine  fam- 
ily, in  former  times — good  friends  to  Church 
and  State,  you  know,  and  all  that — ” 

“Do  you  approve,  sir,  of  Amelia  having  a 
second  helping  of  bread  and  marmalade?”  asked 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


61 


Miss  Sturch,  appealing  to  Doctor  Chennery,  with 
the  most  perfect  unconsciousness  of  interrupting 
him.  Having  no  spare  room  in  her  mind  for 
putting  things  away  in  until  the  appropriate 
time  came  for  bringing  them  out,  Miss  Sturch 
always  asked  questions  and  made  remarks  the 
moment  they  occurred  to  her,  without  waiting 
for  the  beginning,  middle,  or  end  of  any  con- 
versations that  might  be  proceeding  in  her  pres- 
ence. She  invariably  looked  the  part  of  a lis- 
tener to  perfection,  but  she  never  acted  it  except 
in  the  case  of  talk  that  was  aimed  point-blank  at 
her  own  ears. 

“Oh,  give  her  a second  helping,  by  all  means !” 
said  the  vicar,  carelessly;  “if  she  must  over-eat 
herself,  she  may  as  well  do  it  on  bread  and  mar- 
malade as  on  anything  else.” 

“My  dear,  good  soul,”  exclaimed  Mr.  Phip- 
pen,  “look  what  a wreck  I am,  and  don’t  talk 
in  that  shockingly  thoughtless  way  of  letting 
our  sweet  Amelia  over-eat  herself.  Load  the 
stomach  in  youth,  and  what  becomes  of  the 
digestion  in  age?  The  thing  which  vulgar  peo- 
ple call  the  inside — I appeal  to  Miss  Sturch’s  in- 
terest in  her  charming  pupil  as  an  excuse  for 
going  into  physiological  particulars — is,  in  point 
of  fact,  an  Apparatus.  Digestively  considered, 
Miss  Sturch,  even  the  fairest  and  youngest  of  us 
is  an  Apparatus.  Oil  our  wheels,  if  you  like; 
but  clog  them  at  your  peril.  Farinaceous  pud- 
dings and  mutton-chops;  mutton-chops  and  fari- 
naceous puddings — those  should  be  the  parents’ 
watch- words,  if  I had  my  way,  from  one  end  of 


62 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


England  to  the  other.  Look  here,  my  sweet 
child — look  at  me.  There  is  no  fun,  dear,  about 
these  little  scales,  but  dreadful  earnest.  See!  I 
put  in  the  balance  on  one  side  dry  bread  (stale, 
dry  bread,  Amelia!),  and  on  the  other  some  ounce 
weights.  ‘Mr.  Phippen,  eat  by  weight.  Mr. 
Phippen ! eat  the  same  quantity,  day  by  day,  to 
a hair-breadth.  Mr.  Phippen!  exceed  your  al- 
lowance (though  it  is  only  stale,  dry  bread)  if 
you  dare!’  Amelia,  love,  this  is  not  fun— this 
is  what  the  doctors  tell  me — the  doctors,  my 
child,  who  have  been  searching  my  Apparatus 
through  and  through  for  thirty  years  past  with 
little  pills,  and  have  not  found  out  where  my 
wheels  are  clogged  yet.  Think  of  that,  Amelia 
— think  of  Mr.  Phippen’s  clogged  Apparatus — 
and  say  ‘No,  thank  you,’  next  time.  Miss 
Sturch,  I beg  a thousand  pardons  for  intruding 
on  your  province;  but  my  interest  in  that  sweet 
child — Chennery,  you  dear,  good  soul,  what 
were  we  talking  about?  Ah!  the  bride — the 
interesting  bride!  And  so  she  is  one  or  the 
Cornish  Trevertons?  I knew  something  of  An- 
drew years  ago.  He  was  a bachelor,  like  my- 
self, Miss  Sturch.  His  Apparatus  was  out  of 
order,  like  mine,  dear  Amelia.  Not  at  all  like 
his  brother,  the  Captain,  I should  suppose? 
And  so  she  is  married?  A charming  girl,  I 
have  no  doubt.  A charming  girl!” 

“No  better,  truer,  prettier  girl  in  the  world,” 
said  the  vicar. 

“A  very  lively,  energetic  person,”  remarked 
Miss  Sturch. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


63 


“How  I shall  miss  her!”  cried  Miss  Louisa. 
“Nobody  else  amused  me  as  Rosamond  did, 
when  I was  laid  up  with  that  last  bad  cold  of 
mine.” 

“She  used  to  give  us  such  nice  little  early 
supper- parties,”  said  Miss  Amelia. 

“She  was  the  only  girl  I ever  saw  who  was  fit 
to  play  with  boys,”  said  Master  Robert.  “She 
could  catch  a ball,  Mr.  Phippen,  sir,  with  one 
hand,  and  go  down  a slide  with  both  her  legs 
together.” 

•“Bless  me!”  said  Mr.  Phippen.  “What  an 
extraordinary  wife  for  a blind  man!  You  said 
he  was  blind  from  his  birth,  my  dear  doctor,  did 
you  not?  Let  me  see,  what  was  his  name?  You 
will  not  bear  too  hardly  on  my  loss  of  memory, 
Miss  Sturch?  When  indigestion  has  done  with 
the  body,  it  begins  to  prey  on  the  mind.  Mr. 
Frank  Something,  was  it  not?” 

“No,  no — Frankland,”  answered  the  vicar, 
“Leonard  Frankland.  And  not  blind  from  his 
birth  by  any  means.  It  is  not  much  more  than 
a year  ago  since  he  could  see  almost  as  well  as 
any  of  us.” 

“An  accident,  I suppose!”  said  Mr.  Phippen. 
“You  will  excuse  me  if  I take  the  arm-chair? 
— a partially  reclining  posture  is  of  great  assist= 
ance  to  me  after  meals.  So  an  accident  hap- 
pened to  his  eyes?  Ah,  what  a delightfully  easy 
chair  to  sit  in !” 

“Scarcely  an  accident,”  said  Doctor  Chennery. 
“Leonard  Frankland  was  a difficult  child  to 
bring  up:  great  constitutional  weakness,  you 


64 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


know,  at  first.  He  seemed  to  get  over  that  with 
time,  and  grew  into  a quiet,  sedate,  orderly  sort 
of  boy— as  unlike  my  son  there  as  possible — very 
amiable,  and  what  you  call  easy  to  deal  with. 
Well,  he  had  a turn  for  mechanics  (I  am  telling 
you'  all  this  to  make  you  understand  about  his 
blindness),  and,  after  veering  from  one  occupa- 
tion of  that  sort  to  another,  he  took  at  last  to 
watch-making.  Curious  amusement  for  a boy; 
but  anything  that  required  delicacy  of  touch, 
and  plenty  of  patience  and  perseverance,  was 
just  the  thing  to  amuse  and  occupy  Leonard.  ' I 
always  said  to  his  father  and  mother,  ‘Get  him 
off  that  stool,  break  his  magnifying-glasses,  send 
him  to  me,  and  I’ll  give  him  a back  at  leap-frog, 
and  teach  him  the  use  of  a bat.’  But  it  was  no 
use.  His  parents  knew  best,  I suppose,  and  they 
said  he’must  be  humored.  Well,  things  went  on 
smoothly  enough  for  some  time,  till  he  got  an- 
other long  illness — as  I believe,  from  not  taking 
exercise  enough.  As  soon  as  he  began  to  get 
round,  back  he  went  to  his  old  watch-making 
occupations  again.  But  the  bad  end  of  it  all 
was  coming.  About  the  last  work  he  did,  poor 
fellow,  was  the  repairing  of  my  watch — here  it 
is;  goes  as  regular  as  a steam-engine.  I hadn’t 
got  it  back  into  my  fob  very  long  before  I heard 
that  he  was  getting  a bad  pain  at  the  back  of  his 
head,  and  that  he  saw  all  sorts  of  moving  spots 
before  his  eyes.  ‘String  him  up  with  lots  of 
port  wine,  and  give  him  three  hours  a day  on 
the  back  of  a quiet  pony’ — that  was  my  advice. 
Instead  of  taking  it,  they  sent  for  doctors  from 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


65 


London,  and  blistered  him  behind  the  ears  and 
between  the  shoulders,  and  drenched  the  lad 
with  mercury,  and  moped  him  up  in  a dark 
room.  No  use.  The  sight  got  worse  and  worse, 
flickered  and  flickered,  and  went  out  at  last  like 
the  flame  of  a candle,  His  mother  died — luckily 
for  her,  poor  soul — before  that  happened.  His 
father  was  half  out  of  his  mind;  took  him  to 
oculists  in  London  and  oculists  in  Paris.  All 
they  did  was  to  call  the  blindness  by  a long 
Latin  name,  and  to  say  that  it  was  hopeless  and 
useless  to  try  an  operation.  Some  of  them  said 
it  was  the  result  of  the  long  weaknesses  from 
which  he  had  twice  suffered  after  illness.  Some 
said  it  was  an  apoplectic  effusion  in  his  brain. 
All  of  them  shook  their  heads  when  they  heard 
of  the  watch-making.  So  they  brought  him 
back  home,  blind;  blind  he  is  now;  and  blind 
he  will  remain,  poor  dear  fellow,  for  the  rest  of 
his  life.” 

“You  shock  me;  my  dear  Chennery,  you  shock 
me  dreadfully,”  said  Mr.  Phippen.  “Especially 
when  you  state  that  theory  about  long  weakness 
after  illness.  Good  heavens ! Why,  I have  had 
long  weaknesses — I have  got  them  now.  Spots 
did  he  see  before  his  eyes?  I see  spots,  black 
spots,  dancing  black  spots,  dancing  black  bilious 
spots.  Upon  my  word  of  honor,  Chennery,  this 
comes  home  to  me — my  sympathies  are  pain- 
fully acute — I feel  this  blind  story  in  every 
nerve  of  my  body;  I do,  indeed!” 

“You  would  hardly  know  that  Leonard  was  • 
blind,  to  look  at  him,”  said  Miss  Louisa,  strik- 
C— Yol.  16 


66 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


ing  into  the  conversation  with  a view  to  restor- 
ing Mr.  Phippen’s  equanimity.  “Except  that 
his  eyes  look  quieter  than  other  people’s,  there 
seems  no  difference  in  them  now.  Who  was 
that  famous  character  you  told  us  about,  Miss 
Sturch,  who  was  blind,  and  didn’t  show  it  any 
more  than  Leonard  Frankland?” 

“Milton,  my  love.  I begged  you  to  remember 
that  he  was  the  most  famous  of  British  epic 
poets,”  answered  Miss  Sturch  with  suavity. 
“He  poetically  describes  his  blindness  as  being 
caused  by  ‘so  thick  a drop  serene.’  • You  shall 
read  about  it,  Louisa.  After  we  have  had  a lit- 
tle French,  we  will  have  a little  Milton,  this 
morning.  Hush,  love,  your  papa  is  speaking.” 

“Poor  young  Frankland!”  said  the  vicar, 
warmly.  “That  good,  tender,  noble  creature  I 
married  him  to  this  morning  seems  sent  as  a 
consolation  to  him  in  his  affliction.  If  any  hu- 
man being  can  make  him  happy  'for  the  rest  of 
his  life,  Rosamond  Treverton  is  the  girl  to  do  it.” 

“She  has  made  a sacrifice,”  said  Mr.  Phip- 
pen;  “but  I like  her  for  that,  having,  made  a— 
sacrifice  myself  in  remaining-  single.  It  seems 
indispensable,  indeed,  on  the  score  of  humanity, 
that  I should  do  so.  How  could  I conscientious- 
ly inflict  such  a digestion  as  mine  on  a member 
of  the  fairer  portion  of  creation?  Ho;  I am  a 
sacrifice  in  my  own  proper  person,  and  I have  a 
fellow-feeling  for  others  who  are  like  me.  Did 
she  cry  much,  Chennery,  when  you  were  marry- 
ing her?” 

“Cry  !”  exclaimed  the  vicar,  contemptuously. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


67 


“Rosamond  Treverton  is  not  one  of  the  puling, 
sentimental  sort,  I can  tell  you.  A fine  buxom, 
warm-hearted,  quick-tempered  girl,  who  looks 
what  she  means  when  she  tells  a man  she  is  go- 
ing to  marry  him.  And,  mind  you,  she  has  been 
tried.  If  she  hadn’t  loved  him  with  all  her  heart 
and  soul,  she  might  have  been  free  months  ago 
to  marry  anybody  she  pleased.  They  were  en- 
gaged long  before  this  cruel  affliction  befell 
young  Frankland— the  fathers,  on  both  sides, 
having  lived  as  near  neighbors  in  these  parts 
for  years.  Well,  when  the  blindness  came, 
Leonard  at  once  offered  to  release  Rosamond 
from  her  engagement.  You  should  have  read 
the  letter  she  wrote  to  him,  Phippen,  upon  that. 
I don’t  mind  confessing  that  I blubbered  like  a 
baby  over  it  when  they  showed  it  to  me.  I 
should  have  married  them  at  once  the  instant  I 
read  it,  but  old  Frankland  was  a fidgety,  punc- 
tilious kind  of  man,  and  he  insisted  on  a six- 
months’  probation,  so  that  she  might  be  certain 
of  knowing  her  own  mind.  He  died  before  the 
term  was  out,  and  that  caused  the  marriage  to 
be  put  off  again.  But  no  delays  could  alter 
Rosamond — six  years,  instead  of  six  months, 
would  not  have  changed  her.  There  she  was 
this  morning  as  fond  of  that  poor,  patient  blind 
fellow  as  she  was  the  first  day  they  were  en- 
gaged. cYou  shall  never  know  a sad  moment, 
Lenny,  if  I can  help  it,  as  long  as  you  live’— 
these  were  the  first  words  she  said  to  him  when 
we  all  came  out  of  church.  ‘I  hear  you,  Rosa- 
mond,’ said  I.  ‘And  you  shall  judge  me,  too, 


6S 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Doctor/  says  she,  quick  as  lightning.  {¥e  will 
come  back  to  Long  Beckley,  and  you  shall  ask 
Lenny  if  I have  not  kept  my  word/  With  that 
she  gave  me  a kiss  that  you  might  have  heard 
down  here  at  the  vicarage,  bless  her  heart! 
We’ll  drink  her  health  after  dinner,  Miss 
Sturch — we’ll  drink  both  their  healths,  Phip. 
pen,  in  a bottle  of  the  best  wine  I have  in  my 
cellar.” 

<cIna  glass  of  toast-and- water,  so  far  as  I am 
concerned,  if  you  will  allow  me,”  said  Mr.  Phip- 
pen,  mournfully.  “But,  my  dear  Chennery, 
when  you  were  talking  of  the  fathers  of  these 
two  interesting  young  people,  you  spoke  of  their 
living  as  near  neighbors  here,  at  Long  Beckley. 
My  memory  is  impaired,  as  I am  painfully 
aware;  but  I thought  Captain  Treverton  was 
the  eldest  of  the  two  brothers,  and  that  he  al- 
ways lived,  when  he  was  on  shore,  at  the  family 
place  in  Cornwall?” 

“So  he  did,”  returned  the  vicar,  “in  his  wife’s 
lifetime.  But  since  her  death,  which  happened 
as  long  ago  as  the  year  ’twenty-nine— let  me  see, 
we  are  now  in  the  year  ’forty-four— and  that 
makes — ” 

The  vicar  stopped  for  an  instant  to  calculate, 
and  looked  at  Miss  Sturch. 

“Fifteen  years  ago,  sir,”  said  Miss  Sturch, 
offering  the  accommodation  of  a little  simple 
subtraction  to  the  vicar,  with  her  blandest  smile. 

“Of  course,”  continued  Doctor  Chennery. 
“Well,  since  Mrs.  Treverton  died,  fifteen  years 
ago,  Captain  Treverton  has  never  been  near 


THE  BEAD  SECRET. 


69 


Porthgenna  Tower.  And,  what  is  more,  Phip- 
pen, at  the  first  opportunity  he  could  get,  he 
sold  the  place — sold  it,  out  and  out,  mine,  fisher- 
ies, and  all — for  forty  thousand  pounds.’5 

“You  don’t  say  so!”  exclaimed  Mr.  Phippen. 
“Did  he  find  the  air  unhealthy?  I should  think 
the  local  produce,  in  the  way  of  food,  must  be 
coarse  now,  in  those  barbarous  regions?  Who 
bought  the  place?” 

“Leonard  Frankland’s  father,”  said  the  vicar. 
“It  is  rather  a long  story,  that  sale  of  Porth- 
genna Tower,  with  some  curious  circumstances 
involved  in  it.  Suppose  we  take  a turn  in  the 
garden,  Phippen?  I’ll  tell  you  all  about  it  over 
my  morning  cigar.  Miss  Sturctr,  if  you  want 
me,  I shall  be  on  the  lawn  somewhere.  Girls! 
mind  you  know  your  lessons.  Bob!  remember 
that  I’ve  got  a cane  in  the  hall,  and  a birch-rod 
in  my  dressing-room.  Come,  Phippen,  rouse  up 
out  of  that  arm-chair.  You  won’t  say  No  to  a 
turn  in  the  garden?” 

“My  dear  fellow,  I will  say  Yes — if  you  will 
kindly  lend  me  an  umbrella,  and  allow  me  to 
carry  my  camp-stool  in  my  hand,”  said  Mr. 
Phippen.  “I  am  too  weak  to  encounter  the  sun, 
and  I can’t  go  far  without  sitting  down. - The 
moment  I feel  fatigued,  Miss  Sturch,  I open  my 
camp-stool,  and  sit  down  anywhere,  without  the 
slightest  regard  for  appearances. — I am  ready, 
Chennery,  whenever  you  are — equally  ready, 
my  good  friend,  for  the  garden  and  the  story 
about  the  sale  of  Porthgenna  Tower.  You  said 
it  was  a curious  story,  did  you  not?” 


70 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


liI  said  there  was  some  curious  circumstances 
connected  with  it,”  replied  the  vicar.  “And 
when  you  hear  about  them,  I think  you  will  say 
so  too.  Come  along!  you  will  find  your  camp- 
stool,  and  a choice  of  all  the  umbrellas  in  the 
house,  in  the  hall.” 

With  those  words,  Doctor  Chennery  opened  his. 
cigar-case  and  led  the  way  out  of  the  breakfast- 
parlor. 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  SALE  OF  PORTHGENNA  TOWER. 

“How  charming!  how  pastoral!  how  exquis- 
itely soothing!”  said  Mr.  Phippen,  sentimentally 
surveying  the  lawn  at  the  back  of  the  vicarage- 
house,  under  the  shadow  of  the  lightest  um- 
brella he  could  pick  out  of  the  hall.  “Three 
years  have  passed,  Chennery,  since  I last  stood 
on  this  lawn.  There  is  the  window  of  your  old 
study,  where  I had  my  attack  of  heart-burn  last 
time — in  the  strawberry  season;  don’t  you  re- 
member? Ah!  and  there  is  the  school -room! 
Shall  I ever  forget  dear  Miss  Sturch  coming  to 
me  out  of  that  room — a ministering  angel  with 
soda  and  ginger — so  comforting,  so  sweetly  anx- 
ious about  stirring  it  up,  so  unaffectedly  grieved 
that  there  was  no  sal- volatile  in  the  house ! I do 
so  enjoy  these  pleasant  recollections,  Chennery; 
they  are  as  great  a luxury  to  me  as  your  cigar  is 
to  you.  Could  you  walk  on  the  other  side,  my 
dear  fellow?  I like  the  smell,  but  the  smoke  is 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


71 


a little  too  much  for  me.  Thank  you.  And  now 
about  the  story?  What  was  the  name  of  the  old 
place — I am  so  interested  in  it — it  began  with  a 
P,  surely?” 

“Porthgenna  Tower,”  said  the  vicar. 

“Exactly,”  rejoined  Mr.  Phippen,  shifting  the 
umbrella  tenderly  from  one  shoulder  to  the  other. 
“And  what  in  the  world  made  Captain  Trever- 
ton  sell  Porthgenna  Tower?” 

“I  believe  the  reason  was  that  he  could  not 
endure  the  place  after  the  death  of  his  wife,” 
answered  Doctor  Chennery.  “The  estate,  you 
know,  has  never  been  entailed;  so  the  Captain 
had  no  difficulty  in  parting  with  it,  except,  of 
course,  the  difficulty  of  finding  a purchaser.” 

“Why  not  his  brother?”  asked  Mr.  Phippen. 
“Why  not  our  eccentric  friend,  Andrew  Trever- 
ton?” 

“Don’t  call  him  my  friend,”  said  the  vicar. 
“A  mean,  groveling,  cynical,  selfish  old  wretch! 
It’s  no  use  shaking  your  head,  Phippen,  and  try- 
ing to  look  shocked.  I know  Andrew  Trever- 
ton’s  early  history  as  well  as  you  do.  I know 
that  he  was  treated  with  the  basest  ingratitude 
by  a college  friend,  who  took  all  he  had  to  give, 
and  swindled  him  at  last  in  the  grossest  manner. 
I know  all  about  that.  But  one  instance  of  in- 
gratitude does  not  justify  a man  in  shutting  him- 
self up  from  society,  and  railing  against  all  man- 
kind as  a disgrace  to  the  earth  they  walk  on.  I 
myself  have  heard  the  old  brute  say  that  the 
greatest  benefactor  to  our  generation  would  be  a 
second  Herod,  who  could  prevent  another  genera- 


72 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


tion  from  succeeding  it.  Ought  a man  who  can 
talk  in  that  way  to  be  the  friend  of  any  human 
being  with  the  slightest  respect  for  his  species  or 
himself?” 

46 My  friend!”  said  Mr.  Phippen,  catching  the 
vicar  by  the  arm,  and  mysteriously  lowering  his 
voice — 4 4 My  dear  and  reverend  friend ! I admire 
your  honest  indignation  against  the  utterer  of 
that  exceedingly  misanthropical  sentiment;  but 
—I  confide  this  to  you,  Chennery,  in  the  strictest 
secrecy — there  are  moments — morning  moments 
generally — when  my  digestion  is  in  such  a state 
that  I have  actually  agreed  with  that  annihilat- 
ing person,  Andrew  Treverton ! I have  woke  up 
with  my  tongue  like  a cinder — I have  crawled  to 
the  glass  and  looked  at  it— and  I have  said  to 
myself:  ‘Let  there  be  an  end  of  the  human  race 
rather  than  a continuance  of  this! 5 ” 

“Pooh!  pooh!”  cried  the  vicar,  receiving  Mr. 
Phippen ’s  confession  with  a burst  of  irreverent 
laughter.  “Take  a glass  of  cool  small  beer  next- 
time  your  tongue  is  in  that  state,  and  you  will 
pray  for  a continuance  of  the  brewing  part  of  the 
human  race,  at  any  rate.  But  let  us  go  back  to 
Porthgenna  Tower,  or  I shall  never  get  on  with 
my  story.  When  Captain  Treverton  had  once 
made  up  his  mind  to  sell  the  place,  I have  no 
doubt  that,  under  ordinary  circumstances,  he 
would  have  thought  of  offering  it  to  his  brother, 
with  a view,  of  course,  to  keeping  the  estate  in 
the  family.  Andrew  was  rich  enough  to  have 
bought  it;  for,  though  he  got  nothing  at  his 
father’s  death  but  the  old  gentleman’s  rare  col- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


73 


lection  of  books,  he  inherited  his  mother’s  fort- 
une, as  the  second  son.  However,  as  things  were 
at  that  time  (and  are  still,  I am  sorry  to  say),  the 
Captain  could  make  no  personal  offers  of  any  kind 
to  Andrew ; for  the  two  were  not  then,  and  are 
not  now,  on  speakiug,  or  even  on  writing  terms. 
It  is  a shocking  thing  to  say,  but  the  worst 
quarrel  of  the  kind  I ever  heard  of  is  the  quarrel 
between  those  two  brothers.” 

6 ‘Pardon  me,  my  dear  friend,”  said  Mr.  Phip- 
pen,  opening  his  camp-stool,  which  had  hitherto 
dangled  by  its  silken  tassel  from  the  hooked 
handle  of  the  umbrella.  “May  I sit  down  be- 
fore you  go  any  further?  I am  getting  a little 
excited  about  this  part  of  the  story,  and  I dare 
not  fatigue  myself.  Pray  go  on.  I don’t  think 
the  legs  of  my  camp-stool  will  make  holes  in  the 
lawn.  I am  so  light — a mere  skeleton,  in  fact. 
Do  go  on!” 

“You  must  have  heard,”  pursued  the  vicar, 
“that  Captain  Treverton,  when  he  was  advanced 
in  life,  married  an  actress— rather  a violent  tem- 
per, I believe;  but  a person  of  spotless  character, 
and  as  fond  of  her  husband  as  a woman  could  be; 
therefore,  according  to  my  view  of  it,  a very 
good  wife  for  him  to  marry.  However,  the  Cap- 
tain’s friends,  of  course,  made  the  usual  senseless 
outcry,  and  the  Captain’s  brother,  as  the  only 
near  relation,  took  it  on  himself  to  attempt  break- 
ing off  the  marriage  in  the  most  offensively  in- 
delicate way.  Failing  in  that,  and  hating  the 
poor  woman  like  poison,  he  left  this  brother’s 
house,  saying,  among  many  other  savage 


74  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

speeches,  one  infamous  thing  about  the  bride, 
which — which,  upon  my  honor,  Phippen,  1 am 
ashamed  to  repeat.  Whatever  the  words  were, 
they  were  unluckily  carried  to  Mrs.  Treverton’s 
ears,  and  they  were  of  the  kind  that  no  woman 
— let  alone  a quick-tempered  woman  like  the  Cap- 
tain’s wife — ever  forgives.  An  interview  fol- 
lowed between  the  two  brothers — and  it  led,  as 
you  may  easily  imagine,  to  very  unhappy  re- 
sults. They  parted  in  the  most  deplorable  man- 
ner. The  Captain  declared,  in  the  heat  of  his 
passion,  that  Andrew  had  never  had  one  gen- 
erous impulse  in  his  heart  since  he  was  born, 
and  that  he  would  die  without  one  kind  feeling 
toward  any  living  soul  in  the  world.  Andrew 
replied  that,  if  he  had  no  heart,  he  had  a mem- 
ory, and  that  he  should  remember  those  farewell 
words  as  long  as  he  lived.  So  they  separated. 
Twice  afterward  the  Captain  made  overtures  of 
reconciliation.  The  first  time  when  his  daughter 
Rosamond  was  born;  the  second  time  when  Mrs. 
Treverton  died.  On  each  occasion  the  elder  bro- 
ther wrote  to  say  that,  if  the  younger  would  re- 
tract the  atrocious  words  he  had  spoken  against 
his  sister-in-law,  every  atonement  should  be 
offered  to  him  for  the  harsh  language  which 
the  Captain  had  used,  in  the  hastiness  of  anger, 
when  they  last  met.  No  answer  was  received 
from  Andrew  to  either  letter ; and  the  estrange- 
ment between  the  two  brothers  has  continued  to 
the  present  time.  You  understand  now  why 
Captain  Treverton  could  not  privately  consult 
Andrew’s  inclinations  before  he  publicly  an- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


75 


nounced  his  intention  of  parting  with  Porth- 
genna  Tower.” 

Although  Mr.  Phippen  declared,  in  answer 
to  this  appeal,  that  he  understood  perfectly,  and 
although  he  begged  with  the  utmost  politeness 
that  the  vicar  would  go  on,  his  attention  seemed, 
for  the  moment,  to  be  entirely  absorbed  in  in- 
spect] ug  the  legs  of  his  camp-stool,  and  in  ascer- 
taining what  impression  they  made  on  the  vicar- 
age lawn.  Doctor  Chennery’s  own  interest, 
however,  in  the  circumstances  that  he  was  re- 
lating, seemed  sufficiently  strong  to  make  up 
for  any  transient  lapse  of  attention  on  the  part 
of  his  guest.  After  a few  vigorous  puffs  at  his 
cigar  (which  had  been  several  times  in  im- 
minent danger  of  going  out  while  he  was  speak- 
ing), he  went  on  with  his  narrative  in  these 
words : 

“Well,  the  house,  the  estate,  the  mine,  and 
the  fisheries  of  Porthgenna  were  all  publicly  put 
up  for  sale  a few  months  after  Mrs.  Treverton’s 
death ; but  no  offers  were  made  for  the  property 
which  it  was  possible  to  accept.*  The  ruinous 
state  of  the  house,  the  bad  cultivation  of  the 
land,  legal  difficulties  in  connection  with  the 
mine,  and  quarter-day  difficulties  in  the  collec- 
tion of  the  rents,  all  contributed  to  make  Porth- 
genna what  the  auctioneers  would  call  a bad  lot 
to  dispose  of.  Failing  to  sell  the  place,  Captain 
Treverton  could  not  be  prevailed  on  to  change 
his  mind  and  live  there  again.  The  death  of 
his  wife  almost  broke  his  heart — for  he  was,  by 
all  accounts,  just  as  fond  of  her  as  she  had  been 


76 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


of  him— and  the  very  sight  of  the  place  that  was 
associated  with  the  greatest  affliction  of  his  life 
became  hateful  to  him.  He  removed,  with  his 
little  girl  and  a relative  of  Mrs.  Treverton,  who 
was  her  governess,  to  our  neighborhood,  and 
rented  a pretty  little  cottage  across  the  church 
fields.  The  house  nearest  to  it  was  inhabited 
at  that  time  by  Leonard  Frankland’s  father  and 
mother.  The  new  neighbors  soon  became  inti- 
mate; and  thus  it  happened  that  the  couple 
whom  X have  been  marrying  this  morning  were 
brought  up  together  as  children,  and  fell  in  love 
with  each  other  almost  before  they  were  out  of 
their  pinafores.” 

“Chennery,  my  dear  fellow,  I don’t  look  as  if 
I was  sitting  all  on  one  side,  do  I?”  cried  Mr. 
Phippen,  suddenly  breaking  into  the  vicar’s  nar- 
rative, with  a look  of  alarm.  “I  am  shocked  to 
interrupt  you;  but  surely  your  grass  is  amazingly 
soft  in  this  part  of  the  country.  One  of  my  camp- 
stool  legs  is  getting  shorter  and  shorter  every 
moment.  I’m  drilling  a hole!  I’m  toppling 
over!  Gracious  heavens!  1 feel  myself  going 
—I  shall  be  down,  Chennery;  upon  my  life,  I 
shall  be  down!” 

“Staff!”  cried  the  vicar,  pulling  up  first  Mr. 
Phippen,  and  then  Mr.  Phippen’s  camp-stool, 
which  had  rooted  itself  in  the  grass,  all  on  one 
side.  “Here,  come  on  to  the  gravel  walk;  you 
can’t  drill  holes  in  that.  What’s  the  matter 
now?” 

“Palpitations,”  said  Mr.  Phippen,  dropping 
his  umbrella,  and  placing  his  hand  over  his 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


77 


heart,  “and  bile.  I see  those  black  spots  again 
— those  infernal,  lively  black  spots  dancing  be- 
fore my  eyes.  Chennery,  suppose  you  consult 
some  agricultural  friend  about  the  quality  of 
your  grass.  Take  my  word  for  it,  your  lawn 
is  softer  than  it  ought  to  be. —Lawn!”  repeated 
Mr.  Phippen  to  himself,  contemptuously,  as  he 
turned  round  to  pick  up  his  umbrella.  “It  isn’t 
a lawn — it  is  a bog!” 

“There,  sit  down,”  said  the  vicar,  “and  don’t 
pay  the  palpitations  and  the  black  spots  the  com- 
pliment of  bestowing  the  smallest  attention  on 
them.  Do  you  want  anything  to  drink?  Shall 
it  be  physic,  or  beer,  or  what?” 

“No,  no!  I am  so  unwilling  to  give  trouble,” 
answered  Mr.  Phippen.  “I  would  rather  suffer 
— rather,  a great  deal.  I think  if  you  would  go 
on  with  your  story,  Chennery,  it  would  compose 
me.  I have  not  the  faintest  idea  of  what  led  to 
it,  but  I think  you  were  saying  something  in- 
teresting on  the  subject  of  pinafores!” 

“Nonsense!”  said  Doctor  Chennery.  “I  was 
only  telling  you  of  the  fondness  between  the  two 
children  who  have  now  grown  up  to  be  man  and 
wife.  And  I was  going  on  to  tell  you  that  Cap- 
tain Treverton,  shortly  after  he  settled  in  our 
neighborhood,  took  to  the  active  practice  of  his 
profession  again.  Nothing  else  seemed  to  fill  up 
the  gap  that  the  loss  of  Mrs.  Treverton  had  made 
in  his  life.  Having  good  interest  with  the  Ad- 
miralty, he  can  always  get  a ship  when  he  applies 
for  one;  and  up  to  the  present  time,  with  inter- 
vals on  shore,  he  has  resolutely  stuck  to  the  sea 


78 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


— though  he  is  getting,  as  his  daughter  and  his 
friends  think,  rather  too  old  for  it  now.  Don’t 
look  puzzled,  Phippen;  I am  not  going  so  wide 
of  the  mark  as  you  think.  These  are  some  of 
the  necessary  particulars  that  must  be  stated 
first.  And  now  they  are  comfortably  disposed 
of,  I can  get  round  at  last  to  the  main  part  of 
my  story— the  sale  of  Porthgenna  Tower. — What 
is  it  now?  Do  you  want  to  get  up  again?” 

Yes,  Mr.  Phippen  did  want  to  get  up  again, 
for  the  purpose  of  composing  the  palpitations 
and  dispersing  the  black  spots,  by  trying  the 
experiment  of  a little  gentle  exercise.  He  was 
most  unwilling  to  occasion  any  trouble,  but  would, 
his  worthy  friend  Chennery  give  him  an  arm, 
and  carry  the  camp-stcol,  and  walk  slowly  in 
the  direction  of  the  school-room  window,  so  as  to 
keep  MissSturch  within  easy  hailing  distance,  in 
case  it  became  necessary  to  try  the  last  resource 
of  taking  a composing  draught?  The  vicar, 
whose  inexhaustible  good  nature  was  proof 
against  every  trial  that  Mr.  Phippen’s  despep- 
tic  infirmities  could  inflict  on  it,  complied  with 
all  these  requests,  and  went  on  with  his  story, 
unconsciously  adopting  the  tone  and  manner  of 
a good-humored  parent  who  was  doing  his  best 
tc  soothe  the  temper  of  a fretful  child. 

“I  told  you,”  he  said,  “that  the  elder  Mr. 
Frankland  and  Captain  Treverton  were  near 
neighbors  here.  They  had  not  been  long  ac- 
quainted before  the  one  found  out  from  the 
other  that  Porthgenna  Tower  was  for  sale.  On 
first  hearing  this,  old  Frankland  asked  a few 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


79 


questions  about  the  place,  but  said  not  a word 
on  the  subject  of  purchasing  it.  Soon  after  that 
the  Captain  got  a ship  and  went  to  sea.  During 
his  absence  old  Frankland  privately  set  off  for 
Cornwall  to  look  at  the  estate,  and  to  find  out 
all  he  could  about  its  advantages  and  defects 
from  the  persons  left  in  charge  of  the  house  and 
lands.  He  said  nothing  when  he  came  back, 
until  Captain  Treverton  returned  from  his  first 
cruise;  and  then  the  old  gentleman  spoke  out 
one  morning,  in  his  quiet,  decided  way. 

44  ‘Treverton,’  said  he,  ‘if  you  will  sell  Porth- 
genna  Tower  at  the  price  at  which  you  bought 
it  in,  when  you  tried  to  dispose  of  it  by  auction, 
write  to  your  lawyer,  and  tell  him  to  take  the 
title-deeds  to  mine,  and  ask  for  the  purchase- 
money.’ 

“Captain  Treverton  was  naturally  a little  as- 
tonished at  the  readiness  of  this  offer ; but  people 
like  myself,  who  knew  old  Frankland’s  history, 
were  not  so  surprised.  His  fortune  had  been 
made  by  trade,  and  he  was  foolish  enough  to 
be  always  a little  ashamed  of  acknowledging 
that  one  simple  and  creditable  fact.  The  truth 
was,  that  his  ancestors  had  been  landed  gentry 
of  importance  before  the  time  of  the  Civil  War, 
and  the  old  gentleman’s  great  ambition  was  to 
sink  the  merchant  in  the  landed  grandee,  and 
to  leave  his  son  to  succeed  him  in  the  character 
of  a squire  of  large  estate  and  great  county  in- 
fluence. He  was  willing  to  devote  half  his  fort- 
une to  accomplish  this  scheme;  but  half  his  fort- 
une would  not  buy  him  such  an  estate  as  he 


80 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


wanted,  in  an  important  agricultural  county  like 
ours.  Rents  are  high,  and  land  is  made  the 
most  of  with  us.  An  estate  as  extensive  as 
the  estate  at  Porthgenna  would  fetch  more  than 
double  the  money  which  Captain  Treverton  could 
venture  to  ask  for  it,  i£  it  were  situated  in  these 
parts.  Old  Frankland  was  well  aware  of  that 
fact,  and  attached  all  possible  importance  to  it. 
Besides,  there  was  something  in  the  feudal  look 
of  Porthgenna  Tower,  and  in  the  right  over  the 
mine  and  fisheries,  which  the  purchase  of  the 
estate  included,  that  flattered  his  notions  of  re- 
storing the  family  greatness.  Here  he  and  his 
son  after  him  could  lord  it,  as  he  thought,  on  a 
large  scale,  and  direct  at  their  sovereign  will  and 
pleasure  the  industry  of  hundreds  of  poor  people, 
scattered  along  the  coast,  or  huddled  together  in 
the  little  villages  inland.  This  was  a tempting 
prospect,  and  it  could  be  secured  for  forty  thou- 
sand pounds  — which  was  just  ten  thousand 
pounds  less  than  he  had  made  up  his  mind  to 
give,  when  he  first  determined  to  metamorphose 
himself  from  a plain  merchant  into  a magnifi- 
cent landed  gentleman.  People  who  knew  these 
facts  were,  as  I have  said,  not  much  surprised  at 
Mr.  Frankland’s  readiness  to  purchase  Porth- 
genna Tower;  and  Captain  Treverton,  it  is 
hardly  necessary  to  say,  was  not  long  in  clinch- 
ing the  bargain  on  his  side.  The  estate  changed 
hands;  and  away  went  old  Frankland,  with  a 
tail  of  wiseacres  from  London  at  his  heels,  to 
work  the  mine  and  the  fisheries  on  new  scien- 
tific principles,  and  to  beautify  the  old  house  from 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


81 


top  to  bottom  with  brand-new  mediaeval  decora- 
tions under  the  direction  ot  a gentleman  who 
was  said  to  be  an  architect,  but  who  looked,  to 
my  mind,  the  very  image  of  a Popish  priest  in 
disguise.  Wonderful  plans  and  projects  were 
they  not?  And  how  do  you  think  they  suc- 
ceeded?” 

“Do  tell  me,  my  dear  fellow !”  was  the  answer 
that  fell  from  Mr.  Phippen’s  lips. — “I  wonder 
whether  Miss  Sturch  keeps  a bottle  of  camphor 
julep  in  the  family  medicine-chest?”  was  the 
thought  that  passed  through  Mr.  Phippen’s 
mind. 

“Tell  you!”  exclaimed  the  vicar,  “Why, 
of  course,  every  one  of  his  plans  turned  out  a 
complete  failure.  His  Cornish  tenantry  re- 
ceived him  as  an  interloper.  The  antiquity  of 
his  family  made  no  impression  upon  them.  It 
might  be  an  old  family,  but  it  was  not  a Cornish 
family,  and,  therefore,  it  was  of  no  importance 
in  their  eyes.  They  would  have  gone  to  the 
world’s  end  for  the  Trevertons;  but  not  a man 
would  move  a step  out  of  his  way  for  the  Prank- 
lands.  As  for  the  mine,  it  seemed  to  be  inspired 
with  the  same  mutinous  spirit  that  possessed  the 
tenantry.  The  wiseacres  from  London  blasted 
in  all  directions  on  the  profoundest  scientific 
principles,  and  brought  about  sixpennyworth  of 
ore  to  the  surface  for  every  five  pounds  spent 
in  getting  it  up.  The  fisheries  turned  out  little 
better.  A new  plan  for  curing  pilchards,  which 
was  a marvel  of  economy  in  theory,  proved  to  be 
a perfect  phenomenon  of  extravagance  in  prac- 


82 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


tice.  The  only  item  of  luck  in  old  Frankland’s 
large  sum  of  misfortunes  was  produced  by  his 
quarreling  in  go  d time  with  the  mediaeval  arch- 
itect, who  was  like  a Popish  priest  in  disguise. 
This  fortunate  event  saved  the  new  owner  of 
Porthgenna  all  the  money  he  might  otherwise 
have  spent  in  restoring  and  redecorating  the 
whole  suite  of  rooms  on  the  north  side  of  the 
house,  which  had  been  left  to  go  to  rack  and 
ruin  for  more  than  fifty  years  past,  and  which 
remain  in  their  old  neglected  condition  to  this 
day.  To  make  a long  story  short,  after  uselessly 
spending  more  thousands  of  pounds  at  Porth- 
genna than  I should  like  to  reckon  up,  old 
Frankland  gave  in  at  last,  left  the  place  in  dis- 
gust to  the  care  of  his  steward,  who  was  charged 
never  to  lay  out  another  farthing  on  it,  and  re- 
turned to  this  neighborhood.  Being  in  high 
dudgeon,  and  happening  to  catch  Captain  Trev- 
erton  on  shore  when  he  got  back,  the  first  thing 
he  did  was  to  abuse  Porthgenna  and  all  the  peo- 
ple about  it  a little  too  vehemently  in  the  Cap- 
tain’s presence.  This  led  to  a coolness  between 
the  two  neighbors,  which  might  have  ended  in 
the  breaking  off  of  all  intercourse,  but  for  the 
children  on  either  side,  who  would  see  each 
other  just  as  often  as  ever,  and  who  ended,  by 
dint  of  willful  persistency,  in  putting  an  end  to 
the  estrangement  between  the  fathers  by  making 
it  look  simply  ridiculous.  Here,  in  my  opinion, 
lies  the  most  curious  part  of  the  story.  Important 
family  interests  depended  on  those  two  young 
people  falling  in  love  with  each  other;  and  won- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


83 


derf ul  to  relate,  that  (as  you  know,  after  my  con- 
fession at  breakfast-time)  was  exactly  what  thej^ 
did.  Here  is  a case  of  the  most  romantic  love- 
match,  which  is  also  the  marriage,  of  all  others, 
that  the  parents  on  both  sides  had  the  strongest 
worldly  interest  in  promoting.  Shakespeare  may 
say  what  he  pleases,  the  course  of  true  love  does 
run  smooth  sometimes.  Never  was  the  marriage 
service  performed  to  better  purpose  than  when  I 
read  it  this  morning.  The  estate  being  entailed 
on  Leonard,  Captain  Treverton’s  daughter  now 
goes  back,  in  the  capacity  of  mistress,  to  the 
house  and  lands  which  her  father  sold.  Rosa- 
mond being  an  only  child,  the  purchase-money 
of  Porthgenna,  which  old  Franklaud  once  la- 
mented as  money  thrown  away,  will  now,  when 
the  Captain  dies,  be  the  marriage-portion  of 
young  Frankland’s  wife.  I don’t  know  what 
you  think  of  the  beginning  and  middle  of  my 
story,  Phippen,  but  the  end  ought  to  satisfy  you, 
at  any  rate.  Did  you  ever  hear  of  a bride  and 
bridegroom  who  started  with  fairer  prospects  in 
life  than  our  bride  and  bridegroom  of  to-day?” 
Before  Mr.  Phippen  could  make  any  reply,  Miss 
Sturch  put  her  head  out  of  the  schoolroom  win- 
dow; and  seeing  the  two  gentlemen  approaching, 
beamed  on  them  with  her  invariable  smile.  Then 
addressing  the  vicar,  said  in  her  softest  tones: 

“I  regret  extremely  to  trouble  you,  sir,  but  I 
find  Robert  very  intractable  this  morning  with 
his  Multiplication  table.” 

“Where  does  he  stick  now?”  asked  Doctor 
Chennery, 


84 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“At  seven  times  eight,  sir,”  replied  Miss 
Sturch. 

“Bob!’  shouted  the  vicar  through  the  win- 
dow. “Seven  times  eight?” 

“Forty  - three,”  answered  the  whimpering 
voice  of  the  invisible  Bob. 

“You  shall  have  one  more  chance  before  I 
get  my  cane,”  said  Doctor  Chennery.  “J^ow, 
then,  look  out!  Seven  times—” 

“My  dear,  good  friend,”  interposed  Mr,  Phip- 
pen,  “if  you  cane  that  very  unhappy  boy  he  will 
scream.  My  nerves  have  been  tried  once  this 
morning  by  the  camp-stool.  1 shall  be  totally 
shattered  if  1 hear  screams.  Give  me  time  to 
get  out  of  the  way,  and  allow  me  also  to  spare 
dear  Miss  Sturch  the  sad  spectacle  of  correction 
(so  shocking  to  sensibilities  like  hers)  by  asking 
her  for  a little  camphor  julep,  and  so  giving  her 
an  excuse  for  getting  out  of  the  way  like  me.  I 
think  1 could  have  done  without  the  camphor 
julep  under  any  other  circumstances ; but  I ask  for 
it  unhesitatingly  now,  as  much  for  Miss  Sturch’s 
sake  as  for  the  sake  of  my  own  poor  nerves. — 
Have  you  got  camphor  julep,  Miss  Sturch?  Say 
yes,  I beg  and  entreat,  and  give  me  an  oppor- 
tunity of  escorting  you  out  of  the  way  of  the 
screams.” 

While  Miss  Sturch — whose  well-trained  sen- 
sibilities were  proof  against  the  longest  paternal 
caning  and  the  loudest  filial  acknowledgment 
of  it  in  the  way  of  screams — tripped  upstairs  to 
fetch  the  camphor  julep,  as  smiling  and  self-pos- 
sessed as  ever,  Master  Bob,  finding  himself  left 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


85 


alone  with  his  sisters  in  the  school-room,  sidled 
up  to  the  youngest  of  the  two,  produced  from 
the  pocket  of  his  trousers  three  frowsy  acidulated 
drops  looking  very  much  the  worse  for  wear,  and, 
attacking  Miss  Amelia  on  the  weak,  or  greedy 
side  of  her  character,  artfully  offered  the  drops 
in  exchange  for  information  on  the  subject  of 
seven  times  eight.  “You  like  ’em?”  whispered 
Bob.  “Oh,  don’tl!”  answered  Amelia.  “Seven 
timeseight?”  askedBob.  “Fifty-six,”  answered 
Amelia.  “Sure?”  said  Bob.  “Certain,”  said 
Amelia.  The  drops  changed  hands,  and  the  ca- 
tastrophe of  the  domestic  drama  changed  with 
them.  Just  as  Miss  Sturch  appeared  with  the 
camphor  julep  at  the  garden  door,  in  the  char- 
acter of  medical  Hebe  to  Mr.  Phippen,  her  in- 
tractable pupil  showed  himself  to  his  father  at 
the  school-room  window,  in  the  character,  arith- 
metically speaking,  of  a reformed  son.  The  cane 
reposed  for  the  day;  and  Mr.  Phippen  drank  his 
glass  of  camphor  julep  with  a mind  at  ease  on 
the  twin  subjects  of  Miss  Sturch’s  sensibilities 
and  Master  Bob’s  screams, 

“Most  gratifying  in  every  way,”  said  the 
Martyr  to  Dyspepsia,  smacking  his  lips  with 
great  relish,  as  he  drained  the  last  drops  out 
of  the  glass.  “My  nerves  are  spared,  Miss 
Sturch’s  feelings  are  spared,  and  the  dear  boy’s 
back  is  spared.  You  have  no  idea  how  relieved 
I feel,  Chennery.  Whereabouts  were  we  in  that 
delightful  story  of  yours  when  this  little  domestic 
interruption  occurred?” 

“At  the  end  of  it,  to  be  sure,”  said  the  vicar. 


86 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“The  bride  and  bridegroom  are  some  miles  on 
their  way  by  this  time  to  spend  the  honeymoon 
at  St,  Swithin’s-on-Sea.  Captain  Treverton  is 
only  left  behind  for  a day.  He  received  his  sail- 
ing orders  on  Monday,  and  he  will  be  off  to  Ports- 
mouth to-morrow  morning  to  take  command  of 
his  ship.  Though  he  won’t  admit  it  in  plain 
words,  I happen  to  know  that  Rosamond  has  per- 
suaded him  to  make  this  his  last  cruise.  She  has 
a plan  for  getting  him  back  to  Porthgenna,  to 
livo  there  with  her  husband,  which  I hope  and 
believe  will  succeed.  The  west  rooms  at  the  old 
house,  in  one  of  which  Mrs.  Treverton  died,  are 
not  to  be  used  at  all  by  the  young  married  couple. 
They  have  engaged  a builder — a sensible,  practi- 
cal man,  this  time — to  survey  the  neglected  north 
rooms,  with  a view  to  their  redecoration  and 
thorough  repair  in  every  way.  This  part  of  the 
house  cannot  possibly  be  associated  with  any 
melancholy  recollections  in  Captain  Treverton’s 
mind,  for  neither  he  ndr  anyone  else  ever  entered 
it  during  the  period  of  his  residence  at  Porth- 
genna. Considering  the  change  in  the  look  of 
the  place  which  this  project  of  repairing  the  north 
rooms  is  sure  to  produce,  and  taking  into  account 
also  the  softening  effect  of  time  on  all  painful 
recollections,  I should  say  there  was  a fair  pros- 
pect of  Captain  Treverton’s  returning  to  pass 
the  end  of  his  daj^s  among  his  old  tenantry.  It 
will  be  a great  chance  for  Leonard  Frankland 
if  he  does,  for  he  would  be  sure  to  dispose  the 
people  at  Porthgenna  kindly  toward  their  new 
master.  Introduced  among  his  Cornish  tenants 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


87 


under  Captain  Treverton’s  wing,  Leonard  is  sure 
to  get  on  well  with  them,  provided  he  abstains 
from  showing  too  much  of  the  family  pride 
which  he  has  inherited  from  his  father.  He  is 
a little  given  to  overrate  the  advantages  of  birth 
and  the  importance  of  rank — hut  that  is  really 
the  only  noticeable  defect  in  his  character.  In 
all  other  respects  I can  honestly  say  of  him  that 
he  deserves  what  he  has  got — the  best  wife  in 
the  world.  What  a life  of  happiness,  Phippen, 
seems  to  be  awaiting  these  lucky  young  people! 
It  is  a bold  thing  to  say  of  any  mortal  creatures; 
but,  look  as  far  as  I may,  not  a cloud  can  I see 
anywhere  on  their  future  prospects.” 

“You  excellent  creature!”  exclaimed  Mr. 
Phippen,  affectionately  squeezing  the  vicar’s 
hand.  “How  I enjoy  hearing  you!  how  I 
luxuriate  in  your  bright  view  of  life!” 

“And  is  it  not  the  true  view — especially  in  the 
case  of  young  Pranklandand  his  wife?”  inquired 
the  vicar. 

“If  you  ask  me,”  said  Mr.  Phippen,  with  a 
mournful  smile,  and  a philosophic  calmness  of 
manner,  “I  can  only  answer  that  the  direction 
of  a man’s  speculative  views  depends— not  to 
mince  the  matter — on  the  state  of  his  secretions. 
Your  biliary  secretions,  dear  friend,  are  all  right, 
and  you  take  bright  views.  My  biliary  secre- 
tions are  all  wrong,  and  I take  dark  views.  You 
look  at  the  future  prospects  of  this  young  married 
couple,  and  say  there  is  no  cloud  over  them.  I 
don’t  dispute  the  assertion,  not  having  the  pleas- 
ure of  knowing  either  bride  or  bridegroom.  But 


88  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

I look  up  at  the  sky  over  our  heads — I remember 
that  there  was  not  a cloud  on  it  when  we  first 
entered  the  garden — I now  see,  just  over  those 
two  trees  growing  so  close  together,  a cloud  that 
has  appeared  unexpectedly  from  nobody  knows 
where — and  I draw  my  own  conclusions.  Such,  ” 
said  Mr.  Phippen,  ascending  the  garden  steps  on 
his  way  into  the  house,  “is  my  philosophy.  It 
may  be  tinged  with  bile,  but  it  is  philosophy  for 
all  that.” 

“All  the  philosophy  in  the  world,”  said  the 
vicar,  following  his  guest  up  the  steps,  “will  not 
shake  my  conviction  that  Leonard  Frankland 
and  his  wife  have  a happy  future  before  them.” 

Mr.  Phippen  laughed,  and,  waiting  on  the 
steps  till  his  host  joined  him,  took  Doctor  Chen- 
nevy  ’s  arm  in  the  friendliest  manner. 

“You  have  told  a charming  story,  Chennery,” 
he  said,  “and  you  have  ended  it  with  a charm- 
ing sentiment.  But,  my  dear  friend,  though 
your  healthy  mind  (influenced  by  an  enviably 
easy  digestion)  despises  my  bilious  philosophy, 
don’t  quite  forget  the  cloud  over  the  two  trees. 
Look  up  at  it  now  — it  is  getting  darker  and 
bigger  already.” 


CHAPTER  HI. 

THE  BRIDE  AND  BRIDEGROOxM. 


Under  the  roof  of  a widowed  mother,  Miss 
Mowlem  lived  humbly  at  St.  Swithin’s-on-Sea. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


89 


In  the  spring  of  the  year  eighteen  hundred  and 
forty-four,  the  heart  of  Miss  Mowlem’s  widowed 
mother  was  gladdened  by  a small  legacy.  Turn- 
ing over  in  her  mind  the  various  uses  to  which 
the  money  might  be  put,  the  discreet  old  lady 
finally  decided  on  investing  it  in  furniture,  on 
fitting  up  the  first  floor  and  the  second  floor  of 
her  house  in  the  best  taste,  and  on  hanging  a 
card  in  the  parlor  window  to  inform  the  public 
that  she  had  furnished  apartments  to  let.  By 
the  summer  the  apartments  were  ready,  and  the 
card  was  put  up.  It  had  hardly  been  exhibited 
a week  before  a dignified  personage  in  black  ap- 
plied to  look  at  the  rooms,  expressed  himself  as 
satisfied  with  their  appearance,  and  engaged 
them  for  a month  certain,  for  a newly  married 
lady  and  gentleman,  who  might  be  expected  to 
take  possession  in  a few  days.  The  dignified 
personage  in  black  was  Captain  Treverton’s 
servant,  and  the  lady  and  gentleman,  who  ar- 
rived in  due  time  to  take  possession,  were  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Frankland. 

The  natural  interest  which  Mrs.  Mowlem  felt 
in  her  youthful  first  lodgers  was  necessarily 
vivid  in  its  nature;  but  it  was  apathy  itself 
compared  to  the  sentimental  interest  which  her 
daughter  took  in  observing  the  manners  and  cus- 
toms of  the  lady  and  gentleman  in  their  capacity 
of  bride  and  bridegroom.  From  the  moment 
when  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland  entered  the  house 
Miss  Mowlem  began  to  study  them  with  all  the 
ardor  of  an  industrious  scholar  who  attacks  a 
new  branch  of  knowledge.  At  every  spare  mo- 


90 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


ment  of  the  day,  this  industrious  young  lady 
occupied  herself  in  stealing  upstairs  to  collect 
observations  and  in  running  downstairs  to  com- 
municate them  to  her  mother.  By  the  time  the 
married  couple  had  been  in-  the  house  a week, 
Miss  Mowlem  had  made  such  good  use  of  her 
eyes,  ears  and  opportunities  that  she  could  have 
written  a seven  days’  diary  of  the  lives  of  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Frankland  with  the  truth  and  minute- 
ness of  Mr.  Samuel  Pepys  himself. 

But,  learn  as  much  as  we  may,  the  longer  we 
live  the  more  information  there  is  to  acquire. 
Seven  days’  patient  accumulation  of  facts  in 
connection  with  the  honeymoon  had  not  placed 
Miss  Mowlem  beyond  the  reach  of  further  dis- 
coveries. On  the  morning  of  the  eighth  day, 
after  bringing  down  the  breakfast  tray,  this  ob- 
servant spinster  stole  upstairs  again,  according 
to  custom,  to  drink  at  the  spring  of  knowledge 
through  the  key-hole  channel  of  the  drawing- 
room door.  After  an  absence  of  five  minutes 
she  descended  to  the  kitchen,  breathless  with  ex- 
citement, to  announce  a fresh  discovery  in  con- 
nection with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland  to  her 
venerable  mother. 

“Whatever  do  you  think  she’s  doing  now,” 
cried  Miss  Mowlem,  with  widely  opened  eyes 
and  highly  elevated  hands. 

“Nothing  that’s  useful,”  answered  Mrs.  Mow- 
lem,  with  sarcastic  readiness. 

“She’s  actually  sitting  on  his  knee!  Mother, 
did  you  ever  sit  on  father’s  knee  when  you  were 
married?” 


THE  BEAD  SECRET. 


91 


4 4 Certainly  not,  my  dear.  When  me  and  your 
poor  father  married,  we  were  neither  of  us  flighty 
young  people,  and  we  knew  better.5’ 

“She’s  got  her  bead  on  his  shoulder,”  proceeded 
Miss  Mowlem,  more  and  more  agitatedly,  “and 
her  arms  round  his  neck — both  her  arms,  mother, 
as  tight  as  can  be.55 

“I  won’t  believe  it,”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Mowlem, 
indignantly.  “A  ladylike  her,  with  riches,  and 
accomplishments,  and  all  that,  demean  herself 
like  a housemaid  with  a sweetheart.  Don’t  tell 
me,  I won’t  believe  it!” 

It  was  true  enough,  for  all  that.  There  were 
plenty  of  chairs  in  Mrs.  Mowlem’s  drawing-room; 
there  were  three  beautifully  bound  books  on  Mrs. 
Mowlem’s  Pembroke  table  (the  Antiquities  of  St. 
Swithin’s,  Smallridge’s  Sermons’  andKlopstock’s 
Messiah  in  English  prose)— Mrs.  Frankland  might 
have  sat  on  purple  morocco  leather,  stuffed  with 
the  best  horse-hair,  might  have  informed  and 
soothed  her  mind  with  archaeological  diversions, 
with  orthodox  native  theology,  and  with  devo- 
tional poetry  of  foreign  origin — and  yet,  so  friv- 
olous is  the  nature  of  woman,  she  was  perverse 
enough  to  prefer  doing  nothing,  and  perching 
herself  uncomfortably  on  her  husband’s  knee! 

She  sat  for  some  time  in  the  undignified  posi- 
tion which  Miss  Mowlem  had  described  with 
such  graphic  correctness  to  her  mother — then 
drew  back  a little,  raised  her  head,  and  looked 
earnestly  into  the  quiet,  meditative  face  of  the 
blind  man. 

“Lenny,  you  are  very  silent  this  morning,” 


92 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


she  said.  “What  are  you  thinking  about?  If 
you  will  tell  me  all  your  thoughts,  I will  tell 
you  all  mine.” 

“Would  you  really  care  to  hear  all  my 
thoughts?”  asked  Leonard. 

“Yes;  all.  I shall  be  jealous  of  any  thoughts 
that  you  keep  to  yourself.  Tell  me  what  you 
were  thinking  of  just  now!  Me?” 

“Not  exactly  of  you.” 

“More  shame  for  you.  Are  you  tired  of  me 
in  eight  days?  I have  not  thought  of  anybody 
but  you  ever  since  we  have  been  here.  Ah!  you 
laugh.  Oh,  Lenny,  I do  love  you  so;  how  can 
I think  of  anybody  but  you?  No!  I shan’t  kiss 
you.  I want  to  know  what  you  were  thinking 
about  first.” 

“Of  a dream,  Rosamond,  that  I had  last  night. 
Ever  since  the  first  days  of  my  blindness — Why, 
I thought  you  were  not  going  to  kiss  me  again 
till  I had  told  you  what  I was  thinking  about?” 

“I  can’t  help  kissing  you,  Lenny,  when  you 
talk  of  the  loss  of  your  sight.  Tell  me,  my  poor 
love,  do  I help  to  make  up  for  that  loss?  Are 
you  happier  than  you  used  to  be?  and  have  I 
some  share  in  making  that  happiness,  though  it 
is  ever  so  little?” 

She  turned  her  head  away  as  she  spoke,  but 
Leonard  was  too  quick  for  her.  His  inquiring- 
fingers  touched  her  cheek.  “Rosamond,  you  are 
crying,”  he  said. 

“I  crying!”  she  answered,  with  a sudden  as- 
sumption of  gayety.  “No,”  she  continued,  after 
a moment’s  pause.  “I  will  never  deceive  you, 


THE  HEAD  SECRET. 


93 


love,  even  in  the  veriest  trifle.  My  eyes  serve 
for  both  of  us  now,  don’t  they?  you  depend  on 
me  for  all  that  your  touch  fails  to  tell  you,  and 
I must  never  be  unworthy  of  my  trust — must  I? 
I did  cry,  Lenny— but  only  a very  little.  I don’t 
know  how  it  was,  but  I never,  in  all  my  life, 
seemed  to  pity  you  and  feel  for  you  as  I did  just 
at  that  moment.  Never  mind,  I’ve  done  now. 
Go  on — do  go  on  with  what  you  were  going  to 
say.” 

“I  was  going  to  say,  Rosamond,  that  I have 
observed  one  curious  thing  about  myself  since  1 
lost  my  sight.  I dream  a great  deal,  but  I never 
dream  of  myself  as  a blind  man.  I often  visit 
in  my  dreams  places  that  I saw  and  people  whom 
I knew  when  I had  my  sight,  and  though  I feel 
as  much  myself,  at  those  visionary  times,  as  I 
am  now  when  I am  wide-awake,  I never  by  any 
chance  feel  blind.  I wander  about  all  sorts  of 
old  walks  in  my  sleep,  and  never  grope  my  way. 
I talk  to  all  sorts  of  old  friends  in  my  sleep,  and 
see  the  expression  in  their  faces  which,  waking, 
I shall  never  see  again.  I have  lost  my  sight 
more  than  a year  now,  and  yet  it  was  like  the 
shock  of  a new  discovery  to  me  to  wake  up  last 
night  from  my  dream,  and  remember  suddenly 
that  I was  blind.” 

4 4 What  dream  was  it,  Lenny?” 

4 4 Only  a dream  of  the  place  where  I first  met 
you  when  we  were  both  children.  I saw  the 
glen,  as  it  was  years  ago,  with  the  great  twisted 
roots  of  the  trees,  and  the  blackberry  bushes  twin- 
ing  about  them  in  a still  shadowed  light  that 


94  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

came  through  thick  leaves  from  the  rainy  sky.  I 
saw  the  mud  on  the  walk  in  the  middle  of  the 
glen,  with  the  marks  of  the  cows’  hoofs  in  some 
places,  and  the  sharp  circles  in  others  where  some 
countrywoman  had  been  lately  trudging  by  on 
pattens.  I saw  the  muddy  water  running  down 
on  either  side  of  the  path  after  the  shower;  and 
I saw  you,  Rosamond,  a naughty  girl,  all  cov- 
ered with  clay  and  wet— just  as  you  were  in  the 
reality — soiling  your  bright  blue  pelisse  and  your 
pretty  little  chubby  hands  by  making  a dam  to 
stop  the  running  water,  and  laughing  at  the  in- 
dignation of  your  nurse-maid  when  she  tried  to 
pull  you  away  and  take  you  home,  I saw  all 
that  exactly  as  it  really  was  in  the  by-gone  time; 
but,  strangely  enough,  I did  not  see  myself  as 
the  boy  I then  was.  You  were  a little  girl,  and 
the  glen  was  in  its  old  neglected  state,  and  yet, 
though  I was  all  in  the  past  so  far,  I was  in  the 
present  as  regarded  myself.  Throughout  the 
whole  dream  I was  uneasily  conscious  of  being 
a grown  man — of  being,  in  short,  exactly  what 
I am  now, , excepting  always  that  I was  not 
blind.” 

4 ‘ What  a memory  you  must  have,  love,  to  be 
able  to  recall  all  those  little  circumstances  after 
the  years  that  have  passed  since  that  wet  day  in 
the  glen ! How  well  you  recollect  what  I was 
as  a child!  Do  you  remember  in  the  same  vivid 
way  what  I looked  like  a year  ago  when  you 
saw  me — Oh,  Lenny,  it  almost  breaks  my  heart 
to  think  of  it! — when  you  saw  me  for  the  last 
time?” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


95 


“Do  I remember,  Rosamond!  My  last  look 
at  your  face  has  painted  your  portrait  in  my 
memory  in  colors  that  can  never  change.  I have 
many  pictures  in  my  mind,  but  your  picture  is 
the  clearest  and  brightest  of  all.” 

“And  it  is  the  picture  of  me  at  my  best- — 
painted  in  my  youth,  dear,  when  my  face  was 
always  confessing  how  I loved  you,  though  my 
lips  said  nothing.  There  is  some  consolation  in 
that  thought.  When  years  have  passed  over  us 
both,  Lenny,  and  when  time  begins  to  set  his 
mark  on  me,  you  will  not  say  to  yourself,  6 My 
Rosamond  is  beginning  to  fade;  she  grows  less 
and  less  like  what  she  was  when  I married  her,’ 
I shall  never  grow  old,  love,  for  you ! The  bright 
young  picture  in  your  mind  will  still  be  my  pict- 
ure when  my  cheeks  are  wrinkled  and  my  hair 
is  gray!” 

“Still  your  picture — always  the  same,  grow 
as  old  as  I may.” 

“But  are  you  sure  it  is  clear  in  every  part? 
Are  there  no  doubtful  lines,  no  unfinished  cor- 
ners anywhere?  I have  not  altered  yet  since 
you  saw  me — I am  just  what  I was  a year  ago. 
Suppose  I ask  you  what  I am  like  now,  could 
you  tell  me  without  making  a mistake?” 

“Try  me.” 

“May  I?  You  shall  be  put  through  a com- 
plete catechism ! I don’t  tire  you  sitting  on  your 
knee,  do  I?  Well,  in  the  first  place,  h6w  tall 
am  I when  we  both  stand  up  side  by  side?” 
“You  just  reach  to  my  ear.” 

“Quite  right,  to  begin  with.  Now  for  the 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


next  question.  What  does  my  hair  look  like  in 
your  portrait?” 

“It  is  dark  brown— there  is  a great  deal  of  it 
— and  it  grows  rather  too  low  on  your  forehead 
for  the  taste  of  some  people — ” 

“Never  mind  about 6 some  people’ ; does  it  grow 
too  low  for  your  taste?” 

“Certainly  not.  I like  it  to  grow  low;  I like 
all  those  little  natural  waves  that  it  makes  against 
your  forehead;  I like  it  taken  back,  as  yon  wear 
it,,  in  plain  bands,  which  leave  your  ears  and 
your  cheeks  visible;  and  above  all  things,  I like 
that  big  glossy  knot  that  it  makes  where  it  is  all 
gathered  up  together  at  the  back  of  your  head.” 
“Oh,  Lenny,  how  well  you  remember  me,  so 
far!  Now  go  a little  lower.” 

“A  little  lower  is  down  to  your  eyebrows. 
They  are  very  nicely  shaped  eyebrows  in  my 
picture — -” 

“Yes,  but  they  have  a fault.  Come!  tell  me 
what  the  fault  is.” 

“They  are  not  quite  so  strongly  marked  as  they 
might  be.” 

“Right  again!  And  my  eyes?” 

“Brown  eyes,  large  eyes,  wakeful  eyes,  that 
are  always  looking  about  them.  Eyes  that  can 
be  very  soft  at  one  time,  and  very  bright  at  an- 
other. Eyes  tender  and  clear,  just  at  the  present 
moment,  but  capable,  on  very  slight  provocation, 
of  opening  rather  too  widely,  and  looking  rather 
too  brilliantly  resolute.” 

“Mind  you  don’t  make  them  look  so  now! 
What  is  there  below  the  eyes?” 


THE  HEAD  SECRET. 


97 


“A  nose  that  is  not  quite  big  enough  to  be  in 
proper  proportion  with  them.  A nose  that  has  a 
slight  tendency  to  be — ” 

“Don’t  say  the  horrid  English  word!  Spare 
my  feelings  by  putting  it  in  French.  Say  re- 
trousse, and  skip  over  my  nose  as  fast  as  pos- 
sible.” 

“I  must  stop  at  the  mouth,  then,  and  own  that 
it  is  as  near  perfection  as  possible.  The  lips  are 
lovely  in  shape,  fresh  in  color,  and  irresistible  in 
expression.  They  smile  in  my  portrait,  and  I 
am  sure  they  are  smiling  at  me  now.” 

“How  could  they  do  otherwise  when  they  are 
getting  so  much  praise?  My  vanity  whispers  to 
me  that  I had  better  stop  the  catechism  here.  If 
I talk  about  my  complexion,  I shall  only  hear 
that  it  is  of  the  dusky  sort ; and  that  there  is 
never  red  enough  in  it  except  when  I am  walk 
ing,  or  confused,  or  angry.  If  I ask  a question 
about  my  figure,  I shall  receive  the  dreadful  an- 
swer, 4 You  are  dangerously  inclined  to  be  fat.’ 
If  I say,  How  do  I dress?  I shall  be  told,  Not 
soberly  enough ; you  are  as  fond  as  a child  of 
gay  colors — No!  I will  venture  no  more  ques- 
tions. But,  vanity  apart,  Lenny,  I am  so  glad, 
so  proud,  so  happy  to  find  that  you  can  keep  the 
image  of  me  clearly  in  your  mind.  I shall  do 
my  best  now  to  look  and  dress  like  your  last  re- 
membrance of  me.  My  love  of  loves!  I will 
do  you  credit — I will  try  if  I can’t  make  you 
envied  for  your  wife.  You  deserve  a hundred 
thousand  kisses  for  saying  your  catechism  so 
well — and  there  they  are!” 

D— Vol.  16 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


58 


While  Mrs.  Frankland  was  conferring  the  re- 
ward of  merit  on  her  husband,  the  sound  of  a 
faint,  small,  courteously  significant  cough  made 
itself  timidly  audible  in  a corner  of  the  room. 
Turning  round  instantly,  with  the  quickness  that 
characterized  all  her  actions,  Mrs.  Frankland, 
to  her  horror  and  indignation,  confronted  Miss 
Mowlem  standing  just  inside  the  door,  with  a 
letter  in  her  hand  and  a blush  of  sentimental 
agitation  on  her  simpering  face. 

“You  wretch!  how  dare  you  come  in  without 
knocking  at  the  door?”  cried  Rosamond,  start- 
ing to  her  feet  with  a stamp,  and  passing  in  an 
instant  from  the  height  of  fondness  to  the  height 
of  indignation. 

Miss  Mowlem  shook  guiltily  before  the  bright, 
angry  eyes  that  looked  througli  and  through 
her,  turned  very  pale,  held  out  the  letter  apolo- 
getically, and  said  in  her  meekest  tones  that  she 
was  very  sorry. 

“Sorry!”  exclaimed  Rosamond,  getting  even 
more  irritated  by  the  apology  than  she  had  been 
by  the  intrusion,  and  showing  it  by  another 
stamp  of  the  foot;  “who  cares  whether  you  are 
sorry?  I don’t  want  your  sorrow— I won’t  have 
it.  I never  was  so  insulted  in  my  life — never, 
you  mean,  prying,  inquisitive  creature!” 

“Rosamond!  Rosamond!  pray  don’t  forget 
yourself!”  interposed  the  quiet  voice  of  Mr. 
Frankland. 

“Lenny,  dear,  I can’t  help  it!  That  creature 
would  drive  a saint  mad.  She  has  been  prying 
after  us  ever  since  we  have  been  here- — you  have, 


THE  HEAD  SECRET. 


99 


you  ill-bred,  indelicate  woman ! — I suspected  it 
before — I am  certain  of  it  now ! Must  we  lock 
our  doors  to  keep  you  out? — we  won’t  lock  our 
doors!  Fetch  the  bill!  We  give  you  warning. 
Mr.  Frankland  gives  you  warning — don’t  you, 
Lenny?  I’ll  pack  up  all  your  things,  dear:  she 
shan’t  touch  one  of  them,  Go  downstairs  and 
make  out  your  bill,  and  give  your  mother  warn- 
ing, Mr.  Frankland  says  he  won’t  have  his 
rooms  burst  into,  and  his  doors  listened  at  by 
inquisitive  women — and  I say  so,  too.  Put  that 
letter  down  on  the  table — unless  you  want  to 
open  it  and  read  it — put  it  down,  you  audacious 
woman,  and  fetch  the  bill,  and  tell  your  mother 
we  are  going  to  leave  the  house  directly!” 

At  this  dreadful  threat,  Miss  Mowlem,  who 
was  soft  and  timid,  as  well  as  curious,  by  nature, 
wrung  her  hands  in  despair,  and  overflowed 
meekly  in  a shower  of  tears. 

“Oh!  good  gracious  heavens  above!”  cried 
Miss  Mowlem,  addressing  herself  distractedly  to 
the  ceiling,  “what  will  mother  say!  whatever 
will  become  of  me  now!  Oh,  ma’am!  I thought 
I knocked — I did,  indeed ! Oh,  ma’am ! I humbly 
beg  pardon,  and  I’ll  never  intrude  again.  Oh, 
ma’am!  mother’s  a widow,  and  this  is  the  first 
time  we  have  let  the  lodgings,  and  the  furniture’s 
swallowed  up  all  our  money,  and  oh,  ma’am! 
ma’am!  how  I shall  catch  it  if  you  go!”  Here 
words  failed  Miss  Mowlem,  and  hysterical  sobs 
pathetically  supplied  their  place. 

“Rosamond!”  said  Mr.  Frankland,  There 
was  an  accent  of  sorrow  in  his  voice  this  time, 


100 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  QOLLINS. 


as  well  as  an  accent  of  remonstrance.  Rosa- 
mond’s quick  ear  caught  the  alteration  in  his 
tone.  As  she  looked  round  at  him  her  color 
changed,  her  head  drooped  a little,  and  her  whole 
expression  altered  on  the  instant.  She  stole  gen- 
tly to  her  husband’s  side  with  softened,  saddened 
eyes,  and  put  her  lips  caressingly  close  to  his  ear. 

“ Lenny,”  she  whispered,  “have  I made  you 
angry  with  me?” 

“I  can’t  be  angry  with  you,  Rosamond,”  was 
the  quiet  answer.  “1  only  wish,  love,  that  you 
could  have  controlled  yourself  a little  sooner.” 

“I  am  so  sorry — so  very,  very  sorry!”  The 
fresh,  soft  lips  came  closer  still  to  his  ear  as 
they  whispered  these  penitent  words;  and  the 
cunning  little  hand  crept  up  tremblingly  round 
his  neck  and  began  to  play  with  his  hair.  “So 
sorry,  and  so  ashamed  of  myself ! But  it  was 
enough  to  make  almost  anybody  angry,  just  at 
first— wasn’t  it,  dear?  , And  you  will  forgive  me 
— won’t  you,  Lenny? — if  I promise  never  to  be- 
have so  badly  again?  Never  mind  that  wretched 
whimpering  fool  at  the  door,”  said  Rosamond, 
undergoing  a slight  relapse  as  she  looked  round 
at  Miss  Mowlem,  standing  immovably  repentant 
against  the  wall,  with  her  face  buried  in  a dingy- 
white  pocket-handkerchief.  “I’ll  make  it  up 
with  her;  I’ll  stop  her  crying;  I’ll  take  her  out 
of  the  room;  I’ll  do  anything  in  the  world  that’s 
kind  to  her,  if  you  will  only  forgive  me.” 

“A  polite  word  or  two  is  all  that  is  wanted — 
nothing  more  than  a polite  word  or  two,”  said 
Mr.  Frankland,  rather  coldly  and  constrainedly. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


101 


“Don’t  cry  anymore,  for  goodness’  sake!”  said 
Rosamond,  walking  straight  up  to  Miss  Mowlem, 
and  pulling  the  dingy-white  pocket-handkerchief 
away  from  her  face  without  the  least  ceremony. 
“There!  leave  off,  will  you?  I am  very  sorry 
I was  in  a passion — though  you  had  no  business 
to  come  in  without  knocking — I never  meant  to 
distress  you,  and  I’ll  never  say  a hard  word  to 
you  again,  if  you  will  only  knock  at  the  door  for 
the  future,  and  leave  off  crying  now.  Do  leave 
off  crying,  you  tiresome  creature!  We  are  not 
going  away.  We  don’t  want  your  mother,  or 
the  bill,  or  anything.  Here!  here’s  a present 
for  you,  if  you’ll  leave  off  crying,  Here’s  my 
neck-ribbon — I saw  you  trying  it  on  yesterday 
afternoon,  when  I was  lying  down  on  the  bed- 
room sofa  and  you  thought  I was  asleep.  Never 
mind;  I’m  not  angry  about  that.  Take  the  rib- 
bon-take it  as  a peace-offering,  if  you  won’t  as 
a present.  You  shall  take  it! — No,  I don’t  mean 
that. — I mean,  please  take  it!  There,  I’ve  pinned 
it  on.  And  now,  shake  hands  and  be  friends,  and 
go  upstairs  and  see  how  it  looks  in  the  glass.” 

With  these  words,  Mrs.  Frankland  opened  the 
door,  administered,  under  the  pretense  of  a pat 
on  the  shoulder,  a good-humored  shove  to  the 
amazed  and  embarrassed  Miss  Mowlem,  closed 
the  door  again,  and  resumed  her  place  in  a mo- 
ment on  her  husband’s  knee. 

“I’ve  made  it  up  with  her,  dear.  I’ve  sent 
her  away  with  my  bright  green  ribbon,  and  it 
makes  her  look  as  yellow  as  a guinea,  and  as 
ugly  as — ” Rosamond  stopped,  and  looked  anx- 


102  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

iously  into  Mr.  Frankland’s  face.  “Lenny!”  she 
said,  sadly,  putting  her  cheek  against  his,  “are 
you  angry  with  me  still?” 

“My  love,  I was  never  angry  with  you.  I 
never  can  be.” 

“I  will  always  keep  my  temper  down  for  the 
future,  Lenny!” 

“I  am  sure  you  will,  Rosamond.  But  never 
mind  that.  1 am  not  thinking  of  your  temper 
now.” 

“Of  what,  then?” 

“Of  the  apology  you  made  to  Miss  Mowlem.” 
“Did  I not  say  enough?  I’ll  call  her  back  if 
you  like — I’ll  make  another  penitent  speech — 
I’ll  do  anything  but  kiss  her.  1 really  can’t  do 
that — I can’t  kiss  anybody  now  but  you.” 

“My  dear,  dear  love,  how  very  much  like  a 
child  you  are  still  in  some  of  your  ways!  You 
said  more  than  enough  to  Miss  Mowlem — far 
more.  And  if  you  will  pardon  me  for  making 
the  remark,  I think  in  your  generosity  and  good- 
nature you  a little  forgot  yourself  with  the  young 
woman.  I don’t  so  much  allude  to  your  giving 
her  the  ribbon — though,  perhaps,  that  might  have 
been  done  a little  less  familiarly — but,  from  what 
I heard  you  say,  I infer  that  you  actually  went 
the  length  of  shaking  hands  with  her.” 

“Was  that  wrong?  I thought  it  was  the  kind- 
est way  of  making  it  up.” 

“My  dear,  it  is  an  excellent  way  of  making  it 
up  between  equals.  But  consider  the  difference 
between  your  station  in  society  and  Miss  Mow- 
lem’s.” 


THE  BEAD  SECRET. 


103 


“I  will  try  and  consider  it,  if  you  wish  me, 
love.  But  I think  I take  after  my  father,  who 
never  troubles  his  head  (dear  old  man!)  about 
differences  of  station.  I can’t  help  liking  people 
who  are  kind  to  me,  without  thinking  whether 
they  are  above  my  rank  or  below  it;  and  when 
I got  cool,  I must  confess  X felt  just  as  vexed  with 
myself  for  frightening  and  distressing  that  un- 
lucky Miss  Mowlem  as  if  her  station  had  been 
equal  to  mine.  X will  try  to  think  as  you  do, 
Lenny ; but  X am  very  much  afraid  that  X have 
got,  without  knowing  exactly  how,  to  be  what 
the  newspapers  call  a Radical.” 

“My  dear  Rosamond!  don’t  talk  of  yourself 
in  that  way,  even  in  joke.  You  ought  to  be 
the  last  person  in  the  world  to  confuse  those  dis- 
tinctions in  rank  on  which  the  whole  well-being 
of  society  depends.” 

“Does  it  really?  And  yet,  dear,  we  don’t 
seem  to  have  been  created  with  such  very  wide 
distinctions  between  us.  We  have  all  got  the 
same  number  of  arms  and  legs;  we  are  all 
hungry  and  thirsty,  and  hot  in  the  summer  and 
cold  in  the  winter;  we  all  laugh  when  we  are 
pleased,  and  cry  when  we  are  distressed;  and, 
surely,  we  have  all  got  very  much  the  same  feel- 
ings, whether  we  are  high  or  whether  we  are 
low.  I could  not  have  loved  you  better,  Lenny, 
than  I do  now  if  I had  been  a duchess,  or  less 
than  I do  now  if  I had  been  a servant-girl.” 

“My  love,  you  are  not  a servant-girl.  And, 
as  to  what  you  say  about  being  a duchess,  let  me 
remind  you  that  you  are  not  so  much  below  a 


104 


WORKS  OR  WILKIR  COLLINS. 


duchess  as  you  seem  to  think.  Many  a lady  of 
high  title  cannot  look  back  on  such  a line  of  an- 
cestors as  yours.  Your  father’s  family,  Rosa- 
mond, is  one  of  the  oldest  in  England : even  my 
father’s  family  hardly  dates  back  so  far;  and  we 
were  landed  gentry  when  many  a name  in  the 
peerage  was  not  heard  of.  It  is  really  almost 
laughably  absurd  to  hear  you  talking  of  your- 
self  as  a Radical.” 

“I  won’t  talk  of  myself  so  again,  Lenny — only 
don’t  look  so  serious.  I will  be  a Tory,  dear,  if 
you  will  give  me  a kiss,  and  let  me  sit  on  your 
knee  a little  longer.  ’ ’ 

Mr.  Frankland’s  gravity  was  not  proof  against 
his  wife’s  change  of  political  principles,  and  the 
conditions  which  she  annexed  to  it.  His  face 
cleared  up,  and  he  laughed  almost  as  gayly  as 
Rosamond  herself. 

“By-the-by,”  he  said,  after  an  interval  of  si- 
lence had  given  him  time  to  collect  his  thoughts, 
“did  I not  hear  you  tell  Miss  Mowlem  to  put  a 
letter  down  on  the  table?  Is  it  a letter  for  you 
or  for  me?” 

“ Ah!  I forgot  all  about  the  letter,”  said  Rosa- 
mond, running  to  the  table.  “It  is  for  you, 
Lenny — and,  goodness  me!  here’s  the  Porth- 
genna  postmark  on  it.” 

“It  must  be  from  the  builder  whom  I sent 
down  to  the  old  house  about  the  repairs.  Lend 
me  your  eyes,  love,  and  let  us  hear  what  he  says.  ” 

Rosamond  opened  the  letter,  drew  a stool  to 
her  husband’s  feet,  and,  sitting  down  with  her 
arms  on  his  knees,  read  as  follows : 


THE  DEAD  SECRET, 


105 


6 'To  Leonard  Frankland,  Esq.  : 

"Sir  — Agreeably  to  the  instructions  with 
which  you  favored  me,  1 have  proceeded  to 
survey  Porthgenna  Tower,  with  a view  to  as- 
certaining what  repairs  the  house  in  general, 
and  the  north  side  of  it  in  particular,  may  stand 
in  need  of. 

"As  regards  the  outside,  a little  cleaning  and 
new  pointing  is  all  that  the  building  wants. 
The  walls  and  foundations  seem  made  to  last 
forever.  Such  strong,  solid  work  I never  set 
eyes  on  before. 

"Inside  the  house,  I cannot  report  so  favorably. 
The  rooms  in  the  west  front,  having  been  in- 
habited during  the  period  of  Captain  Treverton’s 
occupation,  and  having  been  well  looked  after 
since,  are  in  tolerably  sound  condition.  I should 
say  two  hundred  pounds  would  cover  the  expense 
of  all  repairs  in  my  line  which  these  rooms  need. 
This  sum  would  not  include  the  restoration  of  the 
western  staircase,  which  has  given  a little  in  some 
places,  and  the  banisters  of  which  are  decidedly 
insecure  from  the  first  to  the  second  landing. 
From  twenty-five  to  thirty  pounds  would  suffice 
to  set  this  all  right. 

"In  the  rooms  on  the  north  front,  the  state  of 
dilapidation,  from  top  to  bottom,  is  as  bad  as 
can  be.  From  all  that  I could  ascertain,  nobody 
ever  went  near  these  rooms  in  Captain  Trever- 
ton’s  time,  or  has  ever  entered  them  since.  The 
people  who  now  keep  the  house  have  a supersti- 
tious dread  of  opening  any  of  the  north  doors,  in 
consequence  of  the  time  that  has  elapsed  since 


106 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


any  living  being  has  passed  through  them.  No- 
body would  volunteer  to  accompany  me  in  my 
survey,  and  nobody  could  tell  me  which  keys 
fitted  which  room  doors  in  any  part  of  the  north 
side.  I could  find  no  plan  containing  the  names 
or  numbers  of  the  rooms;  nor,  to  my  surprise, 
were  there  any  labels  attached  separately  to  the 
keys.  They  were  given  to  me,  all  hanging  to- 
gether on  a large  ring,  with  an  ivory  label  on  it, 
which  was  only  marked — Keys  of  the  North 
Rooms.  I take  the  liberty  of  mentioning  these 
particulars  in  order  to  account  for  my  having, 
as  you  might  think,  delayed  my  stay  at  Porth- 
germa  Tower  longer  than  is  needful.  I lost 
nearly  a whole  day  in  taking  the  keys  off  the 
ring,  and  fitting  them  at  hazard  to  the  right 
doors.  And  I occupied  some  hours  of  another 
day  in  marking  each  door  with  a number  on 
the  outside,  and  putting  a corresponding  label 
to  each  key,  before  I replaced  it  on  the  ring, 
in  order  to  prevent  the  possibility  of  future 
errors  and  delays. 

“As  I hope  to  furnish  you,  in  a few  days,  with 
a detailed  estimate  of  the  repairs  needed  in  the 
north  part  of  the  house,  from  basement  to  roof,  I 
need  only  say  here  that  they  will  occupy  some 
time,  and  will  be  of  the  most  extensive  uature. 
The  beams  of  the  staircase  and  the  flooring  of  the 
first  story  have  got  the  dry  rot.  The  damp  in  some 
rooms,  and  the  rats  in  others,  have  almost  de- 
stroyed the  wainscotings.  Four  of  the  mantel- 
pieces have  given  out  from  the  walls,  and  all  the 
ceilings  are  either  stained,  cracked,  or  peeled  away 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


107 


in  large  patches.  The  flooring  is,  in  general,  in 
a better  condition  than  I had  anticipated;  but 
the  shutters  and  window-sashes  are  so  warped 
as  to  be  useless.  It  is  only  fair  to  acknowledge 
that  the  expense  of  setting  all  these  things  to 
rights — that  is  to  say,  of  making  the  rooms  safe 
and  habitable,  and  of  putting  them  in  proper 
condition  for  the  upholsterer — will  be  consider- 
able. I would  respectfully  suggest,  in  the  event 
of  your  feeling  any  surprise  or  dissatisfaction  at 
the  amount  of  my  estimate,  that  you  should  name 
a friend  in  whom  you  place  confidence,  to  go  over 
the  north  rooms  with  me,  keeping  my  estimate 
in  his  hand.  I will  undertake  to  prove,  if  need- 
ful, the  necessity  of  each  separate  repair,  and  the 
justice  of  each  separate  charge  for  the  same,  to 
the  satisfaction  of  any  competent  and  impartial 
person  whom  you  may  please  to  select. 

“Trusting  to  send  you  the  estimate  in  a few 
days,  I remain,  sir, 

“Your  humble  servant, 

“Thomas  Horlock.” 

“A  very  honest  straightforward  letter,”  said 
Mr.  Frankland. 

“I  wish  he  had  sent  the  estimate  with  it,”  said 
Rosamond.  “Why  could  not  the  provoking  man 
tell  us  at  once  in  round  numbers  what  the  repairs 
will  really  cost?” 

“I  suspect,  my  dear,  he  was  afraid  of  shocking 
us,  if  he  mentioned  the  amount  in  round  num- 
bers.” 

“That  horrid  money!  It  is  always  getting  in 


108 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


one’s  way,  and  upsetting  one’s  plans..  If  we 
haven’t  got  enough,  let  us  go  and  borrow  of 
somebody  who  has.  Do  you  mean  to  dispatch 
a friend  to  Porthgenna  to  go  over  the  house  with 
Mr.  Horlock?  If  you  do  I know  who  I wish  you 
would  send.” 

“Who?” 

“Me,  if  you  please— uuder  your  escort,  of 
course.  Don’t  laugh,  Lenny;  I would  be  very 
sharp  with  Mr.  Horlock;  I would  object  to  every 
one  of  his  charges,  and  beat  him  down  without 
mercy.  I once  saw  a surveyor  go  over  a house, 
and  I know  exactly  what  to  do.  You  stamp  on 
the  floor,  and  knock  at  the  walls,  and  scrape  at 
the  brick-work,  and  look  up  all  the  chimneys, 
and  out  of  all  the  windows — sometimes  you  make 
notes  in  a little  book,  sometimes  you  measure 
with  a foot-rule,  sometimes  you  sit  down  all  of 
a sudden,  and  think  profoundly — and  the  end 
of  it  is  that  you  say  the  house  will  do  very  well 
indeed,  if  the  tenant  will  pull  out  his  purse  and 
put  it  in  proper  repair.” 

“Well  done,  Rosamond!  You  have  one  more 
accomplishment  than  I knew  of;  and  I suppose 
I have  no  choice  now  but  to  give  you  an  oppor- 
tunity of  displaying  it.  If  you  don’t  object,  my 
dear,  to  being  associated  with  a professional  as- 
sistant in  the  important  business  of  checking 
Mr.  Horlock’s  estimate,  I don’t  object  to  paying 
a short  visit  to  Porthgenna  whenever  you  please 
— especially  now  I know  that  the  west  rooms  are 
still  habitable.” 

“Oh,  how  kind  of  you!  how  pleased  I shall 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


109 


be!  how  I shall  enjoy  seeing  the  old  place  again 
before  it  is  altered!  I was  only  five  years  old, 
Lenny,  when  we  left  Porthgenna,  and  I am  so 
anxious  to  see  what  I can  remember  of  it,  after 
such  a long,  long  absence  as  mine.  Do  you 
know,  I never  saw  anything  of  that  ruinous 
north  side  of  the  house? — and  I do  so  dote  on 
old  rooms!  We  will  go  all  through  them, 
Lenny.  You  shall  have  hold  of  my  hand,  and 
look  with  my  eyes,  and  make  as  many  discov- 
eries as  I do.  I prophesy  that  we  shall  see 
ghosts,  and  find  treasures,  and  hear  mysterious 
noises — and,  oh  heavens!  what  clouds  of  dust 
we  shall  have  to  go  through.  Pouf!  the  very 
anticipation  of  them  chokes  me  already!’5 
“Now  we  are  on  the  subject  of  Porthgenna, 
Rosamond,  let  us  be  serious  for  one  moment.  It 
is  clear  to  me  that  these  repairs  of  the  north 
rooms  will  cost  a large  sum  of  money.  Now, 
my  love,  I consider  no  sum  of  money  misspent, 
however  large  it  may  be,  if  it  procures  you  pleas- 
ure. 1 am  with  you  heart  and  soul—” 

He  paused.  His  wife’s  caressing  arms  were 
twining  round  his  neck  again,  and  her  cheek 
was  laid  gently  against  his.  “Go  on,  Lenny,” 
she  said,  with  such  an  accent  of  tenderness  in 
the  utterance  of  those  three  simple  words  that 
his  speech  failed  him  for  the  moment,  and  all 
his  sensations  seemed  absorbed  in  the  one  luxury 
of  listening.  “Rosamond, ” he  whispered,  “there 
is  no  music  in  the  world  that  touches  me  as  your 
voice  touches  me  now ! I feel  it  all  through  me, 
as  I used  sometimes  to  feel  the  sky  at  night,  in 


110 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


the  time  when  I could  see. 53  Ashe  spoke,  the 
caressing  arms  tightened  round  his  neck,  and 
the  fervent  lips  softly  took  the  place  which  the 
cheek  had  occupied.  “Go  on,  Lenny,”  they  re- 
peated, happily  as  well  as  tenderly  now,  “you 
said  you  were  with  me,  heart  and  soul.  With 
me  in  what?” 

“In  your  project,  love,  for  inducing  your  fa- 
ther to  retire  from  his  profession  after  this  last 
cruise,  and  in  your  hope  of  prevailing  on  him  to 
pass  the  evening  of  his  days  happily  with  us  at 
Porthgenna.  If  the  money  spent  in  restoring  the 
north  rooms,  so  that  we  may  all  live  in  them  for 
the  future,  does  indeed  so  alter  the  look  of  the 
place  to  his  eyes  as  to  dissipate  his  old  sorrow- 
ful associations  with  it,  and  to  make  his  living 
there  again  a pleasure  instead  of  a pain  to  him, 
I shall  regard  it  as  money  well  laid  out.  But, 
Rosamond,  are  you  sure  of  the  success  of  your 
plan  before  we  undertake  it?  Have  you  dropped 
any  hint  of  the  Porthgenna  project  to  your 
father?” 

“I  told  him,  Lenny,  that  1 should  never  be  quite 
comfortable  unless  he  left  the  sea  and  came  to 
live  with  us — and  he  said  that  he  would.  I did 
not  mention  a word  about  Porthgenna — nor  did 
he — but  he  knows  that  we  shall  live  there  when 
we  are  settled,  and  he  made  no  conditions  when 
he  promised  that  our  home  should  be  his  home.” 

“Is  the  loss  of  your  mother  the  only  sad  asso- 
ciation he  has  with  the  place?” 

“Not  quite.  There  is  another  association, 
which  has  never  been  mentioned,  but  which  I 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


Ill 


may  tell  you,  because  there  are  no  secrets  be- 
tween us.  My  mother  had  a favorite  maid  who 
lived  with  her  from  the  time  of  her  marriage, 
andwhowas,  accidentally,  the  only  person  present 
in  her  room  when  she  died.  I remember  hearing 
of  this  woman  as  being  odd  in  her  look  and  man- 
ner, and  no  great  favorite  with  anybody  but  her 
mistress.  Well,  on  the  morning  of  my  mother’s 
death,  she  disappeared  from  the  house  in  the 
strangest  way,  leaving  behind  her  a most  singu- 
lar and  mysterious  letter  to  my  father,  asserting 
that  in  my  mother’s  dying  moments  a Secret 
had  been  confided  to  her  which  she  was  charged 
to  divulge  to  her  master  when  her  mistress  was 
no  more;  and  adding  that  she  was  afraid  to  men- 
tion this  secret,  and  that,  to  avoid  being  ques- 
tioned about  it,  she  had  resolved  on  leaving 
the  house  forever.  She  had  been  gone  some 
hours  when  the  letter  was  opened — and  she  has 
never  been  seen  or  heard  of  since  that  time. 
This  circumstance  seemed  to  make  almost  as 
strong  an  impression  on  my  father’s  mind  as 
the  shock  of  my  mother’s  death.  Our  neigh- 
bors and  servants  all  thought  (as  I think)  that 
the  woman  was  mad;  but  he  never  agreed  with 
them,  and  I know  that  he  has  neither  destroyed 
nor  forgotten  the  letter  from  that  time  to  this.” 
“ A strange  event,  Rosamond — a very  strange 
event.  I don’t  wonder  that  it  has  made  a last- 
ing impression  on  him.” 

“ Depend  upon  it,  Lenny,  the  servants  and  the 
neighbors  were  right — The  woman  was  mad. 
Any  way,  however,  it  was  certainly  a singular 


112 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


©vent  in  our  family.  All  old  houses  have  their 
romance — and  that  is  the  romance  of  our  house. 
But  years  and  years  have  passed  since  then;  and, 
what  with  time,  and  what  with  the  changes  we 
are  going  to  make,  I have  no  fear  that  my  dear, 
good  father  will  spoil  our  plans.  Give  him  a 
new  north  garden  at  Porthgenna,  where  he  can 
walk  the  decks,  as  I call  it  — give  him  new 
north  rooms  to  live  in — and  I will  answer  for 
the  result.  But  all  this  is  in  the  future;  let  us 
get  back  to  the  present  time.  When  shall  we 
pay  our  flying  visit  to  Porthgenna,  Lenny,  and 
plunge  into  the  important  business  of  checking 
Mr.  Horlock’s  estimate  for  the  repairs.” 

“We  have  three  weeks  more  to  stay  here, 
Rosamond.” 

“Yes;  and  then  we  must  go  back  to  Long 
Beckley.  I promised  that  best  and  biggest  of 
men,  the  vicar,  that  we  would  pay  our  first  visit 
to  him.  He  is  sure  not  to  let  us  off  under  three 
weeks  or  a month.” 

“In  that  case,  then,  we  had  better  say  two 
months  hence  for  the  visit  to  Porthgenna.  Is 
your  writing-case  in  the  room,  Rosamond?” 

“Yes;  close  by  us,  on  the  table.” 

“Write  to  Mr.  Horlock  then,  love— and  appoint 
a meeting  in  two  months’  time  at  the  old  house. 
Tell  him  also,  as  we  must  not  trust  ourselves  on 
unsafe  stairs— especially  considering  how  de- 
pendent I am  on  banisters — to  have  the  west 
staircase  repaired  immediately.  And,  while  you 
have  the  pen  in  your  hand,  perhaps  it  may  save 
trouble  if  you  write  a second  note  to  the  house- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET, 


118 


keeper  at  Porthgenna,  to  tell  her  when  she  may 
expect  us.” 

Rosamond  sat  down  gayly  at  the  table,  and 
dipped  her  pen  in  the  ink  with  a little  flourish  of 
triumph. 

“In  two  months,”  she  exclaimed,  joyfully,  “I 
shall  see  the  dear  old  place  again!  In  two 
months,  Lenny,  our  profane  feet  will  be  rais- 
ing the  dust  in  the  solitudes  of  the  North 
Rooms.” 


BOOK  III . 


CHAPTER  L 

TIMONOF  LONDON. 

% 

Timon  of  Athens  retreated  from  an  ungrate- 
ful world  to  a cavern  by  the  sea-shore,  vented 
his  misanthropy  in  magnificent  poetry,  and  en- 
joyed the  honor  of  being  called  “My  Lord,” 
Timon  of  London  took  refuge  from  his  species 
in  a detached  house  at  Bays  water — expressed  his 
sentiments  in  shabby  prose— and  was  only  ad- 
dressed as  “Mr.  Treverton,”  The  one  point  of 
resemblance  which  it  is  possible  to  set  against 
these  points  of  contrast  between  the  twp  Timons 
consisted  in  this:  that  their  misanthropy  was, 
at  least,  genuine.  Both  were  incorrigible  haters 
of  mankind. 

There  is  probably  no  better  proof  of  the  ac- 


114 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


curacy  of  that  definition  of  man  which  describes 
him  as  an  imitative  animal,  than  is  to  be  found 
in  the  fact  that  the  verdict  of  humanity  is  al- 
ways against  any  individual  member  of  the 
species  who  presumes  to  differ  from  the  rest.  A 
man  is  one  of  a flock,  and  his  wool  must  be  of 
the  general  color.  He  must  drink  when  the  rest 
drink,  and  graze  where  the  rest  graze.  Let  him 
walk  at  noonday  with  perfect  composure  of 
countenance  and  decency  of  gait,  with  not  the 
slightest  appearance  of  vacancy  in  his  eyes  or 
wildness  in  his  manner,  from  one  end  of  Oxford 
Street  to  the  other  without  his  hat,  and  let  every 
one  of  the  thousands  of  hat- wearing  people  whom 
he  passes  be  asked  separately  what  they  think  of 
him,  how  many  will  abstain  from  deciding  in- 
stantly that  he  is  mad,  on  no  other  evidence  than 
the  evidence  of  his  bare  head?  Nay,  more;  let 
him  politely  stop  each  one  of  thos^p  passengers, 
and  let  him  explain  in  the  plainest  form  of  words, 
and  in  the  most  intelligible  manner,  that  his  head 
feels  more  easy  and  comfortable  without  a hat 
than  with  one,  how  many  of  his  fellow-mortals 
who  decided  that  he  was  mad  on  first  meeting 
him,  will  change  their  opinion  when  they  part 
from  him  after  hearing  his  explanation?  In  the 
vast  majority  of  cases,  the  very  explanation  itself 
would  be  accepted  as  an  excellent  additional  proof 
that  the.  intellect  of  the  hatless  man  was  indis- 
putably deranged. 

Starting  at  the  beginning  of  the  march  of  life 
out  of  step  with  the  rest  of  the  mortal  regiment, 
Andrew  Treverton  paid  the  penalty  of  his  irregu- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


115 


larity  from  his  earliest  days.  He  was  a phe- 
nomenon in  the  nursery,  a butt  at  school,  and 
a victim  at  college.  The  ignorant  nurse-maid 
reported  him  as  a queer  child ; the  learned  school- 
master genteelly  varied  the  phrase,  and  described 
him  as  an  eccentric  boy ; the  college  tutor,  harp- 
ing on  the  same  string,  facetiously  likened  his 
head  to  a roof,  and  said  there  was  a slate  loose  in 
it.  When  a slate  is  loose,  if  nobody  fixes  it  in 
time,  it  ends  by  falling  off.  In  the  roof  of  a 
house  we  view  that  consequence  as  »a  necessary 
result  of  neglect;  in  the  roof  of  a man’s  head  we 
are  generally  very  much  shocked  and  surprised 
by  it. 

Overlooked  in  some  directions  and  misdirected 
in  others,  Andrew’s  uncouth  capacities  for  good 
tried  helplessly  to  shape  themselves.  The  better 
side  of  his  eccentricity  took  the  form  of  friend- 
ship. He  became  violently  and  unintelligibly 
fond  of  one  among  his  school-fellows — a boy  who 
treated  him  with  no  especial  consideration  in  the 
playground,  and  who  gave  him  no  particular  help 
in  the  class.  Nobody  could  discover  the  smallest 
reason  for  it,  but  it  was  nevertheless  a notorious 
fact  that  Andrew’s  pocket-money  was  always  at 
this  boy’s  service,  that  Andrew  ran  about  after 
him  like  a dog,  and  that  Andrew  over  and  over 
again  took  the  blame  and  punishment  on  his 
own  shoulders  which  ought  to  have  fallen  on 
the  shoulders  of  his  friend.  When,  a few  years 
afterward,  that  friend  went  to  college,  the  lad 
petitioned  to  be  sent  to  college,  too,  and  attached 
himself  there  more  closely  than  ever  to  the 


116 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


strangely  chosen  comrade  of  his  school- boy  days. 
Such  devotion  as  this  must  have  touched  any 
man  possessed  of  ordinary  generosity  of  disposi- 
tion. It  made  no  impression  whatever  on  the 
inherently  base  nature  of  Andrew’s  friend. 
After  three  years  of  intercourse  at  college — in- 
tercourse which  was  all  selfishness  on  one  side 
and  all  self-sacrifice  on  the  other—  the  end  came, 
and  the  light  was  let  in  cruelly  on  Andrew’s 
eyes.  "When  his  purse  grew  light  in  his  friend’s 
hand,  and  when  his  acceptances  were  most  nu- 
merous on  his  friend’s  bills,  the  brother  of  his 
honest  affection,  the  hero  of  his  simple  admira- 
tion, abandoned  him  to  embarrassment,  to  ridi- 
cule, and  to  solitude,  without  the  faintest  affec- 
tation of  penitence — without  so  much  even  as  a 
word  of  farewell. 

He  returned  to  his  father’s  house,  a soured 
man  at  the  outset  of  life— returned  to  be  upbraided 
for  the  debts  that  he  had  contracted  to  serve  the 
man  who  had  heartlessly  outraged  and  shame- 
lessly cheated  him.  He  left  home  in  disgrace  to 
travel  on  a small  allowance.  The  travels  were 
protracted,  and  they  ended,  as  such  travels  often 
do,  in  settled  expatriation.  The  life  he  led,  the 
company  he  kept,  during  his  long  residence 
abroad,  did  him  permanent  and  fatal  harm. 
When  he  at  last  returned  to  England,  he  pre- 
sented himself  in  the  most  hopeless  of  all  char- 
acters—the  character  of  a man  who  believes  in 
nothing.  At  this  period  of  his  life,  his  one 
chance  for  the  future  lay  in  the  good  results 
which  his  brother’s  influence  over  him  might 


THE  BEAD  SECRET. 


117 


have  produced.  The  two  had  hardly  resumed 
their  intercourse  of  early  days,  when  the  quarrel 
occasioned  by  Captain  Treverton’s  marriage  broke 
it  off  forever.  From  that  time,  for  all  social  in- 
terests and  purposes,  Andrew  was  a lost  man. 
From  that  time  he  met  the  last  remonstrances 
that  were  made  to  him  by  the  last  friends  who 
took  any  interest  in  his  fortunes  always  with 
the  same  bitter  and  hopeless  form  of  reply:  “My 
dearest  friend  forsook  and  cheated  me,”  he  would 
say.  “My  only  brother  has  quarreled  with  me 
for  the  sake  of  a play-actress.  What  am  I to  ex- 
pect of  the  rest  of  mankind  after  that?  I have 
suffered  twice  for  my  belief  in  others — I will 
never  suffer  a third  time.  The  wise  man  is  the 
man  who  does  not  disturb  his  heart  at  its  natural 
occupation  of  pumping  blood  through  his  body. 
I have  gathered  m)^  experience  abroad  and  at 
home,  and  have  learned  enough  to  see  through 
the  delusions  of  life  which  look  like  realities  to 
other  men’s  eyes.  My  business  in  this  world  is 
to  eat,  drink,  sleep,  and  die.  Everything  else 
is  superfluity — and  I have  done  with  it.” 

The  few  people  who  ever  cared  to  inquire  about 
him  again,  after  being  repulsed  by  such  an  avowal 
as  this,  heard  of  him  three  or  four  years  after  his 
brother’s  marriage  in  the  neighborhood  of  Bavs- 
water.  Local  report  described  him  as  having- 
bought  the  first  cottage  he  could  find  which  was 
cut  off  from  other  houses  by  a wall  all  around 
it.  It  was  further  rumored  that  he  was  living- 
like  a miser;  that  he  had  got  an  old  man-servant, 
named  Shrowl,  who  was  even  a greater  enemy 


118 


WORKS  OP  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


to  mankind  than  himself;  that  he  allowed  no 
living  soul,  not  even  an  occasional  charwoman, 
to  enter  the  house;  that  he  was  letting  his  beard 
grow,  and  that  he  had  ordered  his  servant  Shrowl 
to  follow  his  example.  In  the  year  eighteen  hun- 
dred and  forty-four,  the  fact  of  a man’s  not  shav- 
ing was  regarded  by  the  enlightened  majority  of 
the  English  nation  as  a proof  of  unsoundness  of 
intellect.  At  the  present  time  Mr.  Treverton’s 
beard  would  only  have  interfered  with  his  repu- 
tation for  respectability.  Seventeen  years  ago 
it  was  accepted  as  so  much  additional  evidence 
in  support  of  the  old  theory  that  his  intellects 
were  deranged.  He  was  at  that  very  time,  as 
his  stockbroker  could  have  testified,  one  of  the 
sharpest  men  of  business  in  London;  he  could 
argue  on  the  wrong  side  of  any  question  with 
an  acuteness  of  sophistry  and  sarcasm  that  Dr. 
Johnson  himself  might  have  envied;  he  kept 
his  household  accounts  right  to  a farthing — but 
what  did  these  advantages  avail  him,  in  the 
estimation  of  his  neighbors,  when  he  presumed 
to  live  on  another  plan  than  theirs,  and  when  he 
wore  a hairy  certificate  of  lunacy  on  the  lower 
part  of  his  face?  We  have  advanced  a little  in 
the  matter  of  partial  toleration  of  beards  since 
that  time ; but  we  have  still  a good  deal  of  ground 
to  get  over.  In  the  present  year  of  progress,  eigh- 
teen hundred  and  sixty-one,  would  the  most 
trustworthy  banker’s  clerk  in  the  whole  me- 
tropolis have  the  slightest  change  cf  keeping 
his  situation  if  he  left  off  shaving  his  chin? 

Common  report,  which  calumniated  Mr.  Trev- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


119 


erton  as  mad,  had  another  error  to  answer  for  in 
describing  him  as  a miser.  He  saved  more  than 
two-thirds  of  the  income  derived  from  his  com- 
fortable fortune,  not  because  he  liked  hoarding 
up  money,  but  because  he  had  no  enjoyment  of 
the  comforts  and  luxuries  which  money  is  spent 
in  procuring.  To  do  him  justice,  his  contempt 
for  his  own  wealth  was  quite  as  hearty  as  his 
contempt  for  the  wealth  of  his  neighbors.  Thus 
characteristically  wrong  in  endeavoring  to  de- 
lineate his  character,  report  was,  nevertheless, 
for  once  in  a way,  inconsistently  right  in  de- 
scribing his  manner  of  life.  It  was  true  that 
he  had  bought  the  first  cottage  he  could  find 
that  was  secluded  within  its  own  walls — true 
that  nobody  was  allowed,  on  any  pretense  what- 
ever, to  enter  his  doors — and  true  that  he  had 
met  with  a servant,  who  was  even  bitterer 
against  all  mankind  than  himself,  in  the  person 
of  Mr.  Shrowl. 

The  life  these  two  led  approached  as  nearly  to 
the  existence  of  the  primitive  man  (or  savage) 
as  the  surrounding  conditions  of  civilization 
would  allow.  Admitting  the  necessity  of  eat- 
ing and  drinking,  the  first  object  of  Mr.  Trever- 
ton’s  ambition  was  to  sustain  life  with  the  least 
possible  dependence  on  the  race  of  men  who  pro- 
fessed to  supply  their  neighbors’  bodily  wants, 
and  who,  as  he  conceived,  cheated  them  infa- 
mously on  the  strength  of  their  profession. 

Having  a garden  at  the  back  of  the  house, 
Timon  of  London  dispensed  with  the  green- 
grocer altogether  by  cultivating  his  own  vege- 


120 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


tables.  There  was  no  room  for  growing  wheat, 
or  he  would  have  turned  farmer  also  on  his  own 
account;  but  he  could  outwit  the  miller  and  the 
baker,  at  any  rate,  by  buying  a sack  of  corn, 
grinding  it  in  his  own  hand-mill,  and  giving 
the  flour  to  Shrowl  to  make  into  bread.  On  the 
same  principle,  the  meat  for  the  house  was  bought 
wholesale  of  the  City  salesmen — the  master  and 
servant  eating  as  much  of  it  in  the  fresh  state  as 
they  could,  salting  the  rest,  and  setting  butchers 
at  defiance.  As  for  drink,  neither  brewer  nor 
publican  ever  had  the  chance  of  extorting  a farth- 
ing from  Mr.  Treverton’s  pocket.  He  and  Shrowl 
were  satisfied  with  beer — and  they  brewed  for 
themselves.  With  bread,  vegetables,  meat  and 
malt  liquor,  these  two  hermits  of  modern  days 
achieved  the  great  double  purpose  of  keeping  life 
in  and  keeping  tradesmen  out. 

Eating  like  primitive  men,  they  lived  in  all 
other  respects  like  primitive  men  also.  They 
had  pots,  pans  and  pipkins,  two  dead  tables,  two 
chairs,  two  old  sofas,  two  short  pipes,  and  two 
long  cloaks.  They  had  no  stated  meal-times,  no 
carpets  and  bedsteads,  no  cabinets,  bookcases,  or 
ornamental  knickknacks  of  any  kind,  no  laun- 
dress, and  no  charwoman.  When  either  of  the 
two  wanted  to  eat  and  drink,  he  cut  off  his  crust- 
of  bread,  cooked  his  bit  of  meat,  drew  his  drop 
of  beer,  without  the  slightest  reference  to  the 
other.  When  either  of  the  two  thought  he 
wanted  a clean  shirt,  which  was  very  seldom, 
he  went  and  washed  one  for  himself.  When 
either  of  the  two  discovered  that  any  part  of  the 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


121 


house  was  getting  very  dirty  indeed,  he  took  a 
bucket  of  water  and  a birch-broom,  and  washed 
the  place  out  like  a dog-kennel.  And,  lastly, 
when  either  of  the  two  wanted  to  go  to  sleep,  he 
wrapped  himself  up  in  his  cloak,  lay  down  on 
one  of  the  sofas,  and  took  what  repose  he  re- 
quired, early  in  the  evening  or  late  in  the  morn- 
ing, just  as  he  pleased. 

When  there  was  no  baking,  brewing,  garden- 
ing or  cleaning  to  be  done,  the  two  sat  down  op- 
posite each  other  and  smoked  for  hours,  generally 
without  uttering  a word.  Whenever  they  did 
speak  they  quarreled.  Their  ordinary  dialogue 
was  a species  of  conversational  prize-fight,  begin- 
ning with  a sarcastic  affectation  of  good-will  on 
either  side,  and  ending  in  hearty  exchanges  of 
violent  abuse — just  as  the  boxers  go  through  the 
feeble  formality  of  shaking  hands  before  they 
enter  on  the  serious  practical  business  of  beating 
each  other’s  faces  out  of  all  likeness  to  the  image 
of  man.  Not  having  so  many  disadvantages  of 
early  refinement  and  education  to  contend  against 
as  his  master,  Shrowl  generally  won  the  victory 
in  these  engagements  of  the  tongue.  Indeed, 
though  nominally  the  servant,  he  was  really  the 
ruling  spirit  of  the  house — acquiring  unbounded 
influence  over  his  master  by  dint  of  outmarch- 
ing Mr.  Treverton  in  every  direction  on  his  own 
ground.  Shrowl’s  was  the  harshest  voice; 
Shrowl’s  were  the  bitterest  sayings ; and  Shrowl’s  | 
was  the  longest  beard.  The  surest  of  all  retribu- 
tions is  the  retribution  that  lies  in  wait  for  a man 
who  boasts.  Mr.  Treverton  was  rashly  given  to 


122 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


boasting  of  his  independence,  and  when  retribu- 
tion overtook  him  it  assumed  a personal  form, 
and  bore  the  name  of  ShrowL 

On  a certain  morning,  about  three  weeks  after 
Mrs.  Frankland  had  written  to  the  housekeeper 
at  Porthgenna  Tower  to  mention  the  period  at 
which  her  husband  and  herself  might  be  ex- 
pected there,  Mr.  Treverton  descended,  with  his 
sourest  face  and  his  surliest  manner,  from  the 
upper  regions  of  the  cottage  to  one  of  the  rooms 
on  the  ground-floor,  which  civilized  tenants  would 
probably  have  called  the  parlor.  Like  his  elder 
brother,  he  was  a tall,  well-built  man;  but  his 
bony,  haggard,  sallow  face  bore  not  the  slightest 
resemblance  to  the  handsome,  open,  sunburned 
face  of  the  Captain.  No  one  seeing  them  together 
could  possibly  have  guessed  that  they  were  broth- 
ers— so  completely  did  they  differ  in  expression 
as  well  as  in  feature.  The  heart-aches  that  he 
had  suffered  in  youth;  the  reckless,  wandering, 
dissipated  life  that  he  had  led  in  manhood;  the 
petulance,  the  disappointment  and  the  physical 
exhaustion  of  his  latter  days  had  so  wasted  and 
worn  him  away  that  he  looked  his  brother’s  elder 
by  almost  twenty  years.  With  unbrushed  hair 
and  unwashed  face,  with  a tangled  gray  beard, 
and  an  old,  patched,  dirty  flannel  dressing-gown 
that  hung  about  him  like  a sack,  this  descendant 
of  a wealthy  and  ancient  family  looked  as 
if  his  birthplace  had  been  the  workhouse, 
and  his  vocation  in  life  the  selling  of  cast- 
off clothes. 


THE  BEAD  SECRET. 


123 


It  was  breakfast-time  with  Mr.  Treverton — 
that  is  to  say,  it  was  the  time  at  which  he  felt 
hungry  enough  to  think  about  eating  something. 
In  the  same  position  over  the  mantel-piece  in  which 
a looking-glass  would  have  been  placed  in  a 
household  of  ordinary  refinement,  there  hung  in 
the  cottage  of  Titnon  of  London  a side  of  bacon. 
On  the  deal  table  by  the  fire  stood  half  a loaf  of 
heavy-looking  brown-bread;  in  a corner  of  the 
room  was  a barrel  of  beer,  with  two  battered 
pewter  pots  hitched  onto  nails  in  the  wall  above 
it;  and  under  the  grate  lay  a smoky  old  grid- 
iron, left  just  as  it  had  been  thrown  down  when 
last  used  and  done  with.  Mr.  Treverton  took  a 
greasy  clasp-knife  out  of  the  pocket  of  his  dress- 
ing-gown, cut  off  a rasher  of  bacon,  jerked,  the 
gridiron  onto  the  fire,  and  began  to  cook  his 
breakfast.  He  had  just  turned  the  rasher,  when 
the  door  opened,  and  Shrowl  entered  the  room, 
with  his  pipe  in  his  mouth,  bent  on  the  same  eat- 
ing errand  as  his  master. 

In  personal  appearance,  Shrowl  was  short,  fat, 
flabby,  and  perfectly  bald,  except  at  the  back  of 
his  head,  where  a ring  of  bristly  iron-gray  hair 
projected  like  a collar  that  had  got  hitched  out 
of  its  place.  To  make  amends  for  the  scantiness 
of  his  hair,  the  beard  which  he  had  cultivated  by 
his  master’s  desire  grew  far  over  his  cheeks,  and 
drooped  down  on  his  chest  in  two  thick  jagged 
peaks.  He  wore  a very  old  long-tailed  dresscoat, 
which  he  had  picked  up  at  a bargain  in  Petticoat 
Lane — a faded  yellow  shirt,  with  a large  torn 
frill — velveteen  trousers,  turned  up  at  the  ankles 


124 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


— and  Blucher  boots  that  had  never  been  blacked 
since  the  day  when  they  last  left  the  cobbler’s 
stall.  /"His  color  was  unhealthily  florid,  his  thick 
lips  curled  upward  with  a malicious  grin,  and 
his  eyes  were  the  nearest  approach,  in  form  and 
expression,  to  the  eyes  of  a bull  terrier  which 
those  features  are  capable  of  achieving  when  they 
are  placed  in  the  countenance  of  a man.  Any 
painter  wanting  to  express  strength,  insolence, 
ugliness,  coarseness,  and  cunning  in  the  face  and 
figure  of  one  and  the  same  individual,  could  have 
discovered  no  better  model  for  the  purpose,  all 
the  world  over,  than  he  might  have  found  in  the 
person  of  Mr.  ShrowLj^ 

Neither  master  nor  servant  exchanged  a word 
or  took  the  smallest  notice  of  each  other  on  first 
meeting.  Shrowl  stood  stolidly  contemplative, 
with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  waiting  for  his 
turn  at  the  gridiron.  Mr.  Treverton  finished  his 
cooking,  took  his  bacon  to  the  table,  and,  cut- 
ting a crust  of  bread,  began  to  eat  his  breakfast. 
When  he  had  disposed  of  the  first  mouthful,  he 
condescended  to  look  up  at  Shrowl,  who  was  at 
that  moment  opening  his  clasp-knife  and  ap- 
proaching the  side  of  bacon  with  slouching  steps 
and  sleepily  greedy  eyes. 

“What  do  you  mean  by  that?”  asked  Mr. 
Treverton,  pointing  with  indignant  surprise  at 
Shrowl’s  breast.  “You  ugly  brute,  you’ve  got 
a clean  shirt  on!” 

“Thankee,  sir,  for  noticing  it,”  said  Shrowl, 
with  a sarcastic  affectation  of  humility.  “This 
is  a joyful  occasion,  this  is.  I couldn’t  do  no 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


125 


less  than  put  a clean  shirt  on,  when  it’s  my  mas- 
ter’s  birthday.  Many  happy  returns,  sir.  Per- 
haps you  thought  I should  forget  that  to-day  was 
your  birthday?  Lord  bless  your  sweet  face,  I 
wouldn’t  ha^e  forgot  it  on  any  account.  How 
old  are  you  to-day?  It’s  a long  time  ago,  sir, 
since  you  was  a plump,  smiling  little  boy,  with 
a frill  round  your  neck,  and  marbles  in  your 
pocket,  and  trousers  and  waistcoat  all  in  one, 
and  kisses  and  presents  from  Pa  and  Ma,  and 
uncle  and  aunt,  on  your  birthday.  Don’t  you 
be  afraid  of  me  wearing  out  this  shirt  by  too 
much  washing.  I mean  to  put  it  away  in  laven- 
der against  your  next  birthday;  or  against  your 
funeral,  which  is  just  as  likely  at  your  time  of 
life — isn’t  it,  sir?” 

4 6 Don’t  waste  a clean  shirt  on  my  funeral,” 
retorted  Mr.  Treverbon.  44 1 haven’t  left  you  any 
money  in  my  will,  Shrowl.  You’ll  be  on  your 
way  to  the  workhouse  when  I’m  on  my  way  to 
the  grave.” 

4 4 Have  you  really  made  your  will  at  last,  sir?” 
inquired  Shrowl,  pausing,  with  an  appearance  of 
the  greatest  interest,  in  the  act  of  cutting  off  his 
slice  of  bacon.  44 1 humbly  beg  pardon,  but  I 
always  thought  you  was  afraid  to  do  it,” 

The  servant  had  evidently  touched  intention- 
ally on  one  of  the  master’s  sore  points.  Mr. 
Treverton  thumped  his  crust  of  bread  on  the 
table  and  looked  up  angrily  at  Shrowl. 

44 Afraid  of  making  my  will,  you  fool!”  said 
he.  44 1 don’t  make  it,  and  1 won’t  make  it,  on 
principle.” 


126 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Shrowl  slowly  sawed  off  his  slice  of  bacon, 
and  began  to  whistle  a tune. 

“On  principle/’  repeated  Mr.  Treverton. 
“Rich  men  who  leave  money  behind  them  are 
the  farmers  who  raise  the  crop  of  human  wicked- 
ness. When  a man  has  any  spark  of  generosity 
in  his  nature,  if  you  want  to  put  it  out,  leave 
him  a legacy.  When  a man  is  bad,  if  you  want 
to  make  him  worse,  leave  him  a legacy.  If  you 
want  to  collect  a number  of  men  together  for  the 
purpose  of  perpetuating  corruption  and  oppres- 
sion on  a large  scale,  leave  them  a legacy  under 
the  form  of  endowing  a public  charity.  If  you 
want  to  give  a woman  the  best  chance  in  the 
world  of  getting  a bad  husband,  leave  her  a 
legacy.  Make  my  will ! I have  a pretty  strong 
dislike  of  my  species,  Shrowl,  but  I don’t  quite 
hate  mankind  enough  yet  iodo  such  mischief 
among  them  as  that!”  Ending  his  diatribe  in 
those  words,  Mr.  Treverton  took  down  one  of  the 
battered  pewter  pots,  and  refreshed  himself  with 
a pint  of  beer. 

Shrowl  shifted  the  gridiron  to  a clear  place  in 
the  fire,  and  chuckled  sarcastically. 

“Who  the  devil  would  you  have  me  leave  my 
money  to?”  cried  Mr.  Treverton,  overhearing 
him.  “To  my  brother,  who  thinks  me  a brute 
now;  who  would  think  me  a fool  then;  and  who 
would  encourage  swindling,  anyhow,  by  spend- 
ing all  my  money  among  doxies  and  strolling 
players?  To  the  child  of  that  player-woman, 
whom  I have  never  set  eyes  on,  who  has  been 
brought  up  to  hate  me,  and  who  would  turn 


. THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


127 


hypocrite  directly  by  pretending,  for  decency’s 
sake,  to  be  sorry  for  my  death?  To  you , you 
human  babboon!  — you,  who  would  set  up  a 
usury  office  directly,  and  prey  upon  the  widow, 
the  fatherless,  and  the  unfortunate  generally, 
all  over  the  world?  Your  good  health,  Mr. 
Shrowl!  I can  laugh  as  well  as  you— espe* 
cially  when  I know  I’m  not  going  to  leave  you 
sixpence.” 

Shrowl,  in  his  turn,  began  to  get  a little  irri- 
tated now.  The  jeering  civility  which  he  had 
chosen  to  assume  on  first  entering  the  room  gave 
place  to  his  habitual  surliness  of  manner  and  his 
natural  growling  intonation  of  voice. 

“You  just  let  me  alone — will  you?”  he  said, 
sitting  down  sulkily  to  his  breakfast.  “I’ve  done 
joking  for  to-day ; suppose  you  finish  too.  What’s 
the  use  of  talking  nonsense  about  your  money. 
You  must  leave  it  to  somebody.” 

"^“Yes,  I will,”  said  Mr.  Treverton.  “I  will 
leave  it,  as  I have  told  you  over  and  over  again, 
to  the  first  Somebody  I can  find  who  honestly 
despises  money,  and  who  can’t  be  made  the 
jarorse,  therefore,  by  having  it.” 

“That  means  nobody,”  grunted  Shrowl. 

“I  know  it  does!”  retorted  his  master. 

Before  Shrowl  could  utter  a word  of  rejoinder, 
there  was  a ring  at  the  gate-bell  of  the  cottage. 

“Go  out,”  said  Mr.  Treverton,  “and  see  what 
that  is.  If  it’s  a woman  visitor,  show  her  what 
a scarecrow  you  are,  and  frighten  her  away.  If 
it’s  a man  visitor — ” 

“If  it’s  a man  visitor,”  interposed  Shrowl,  “I’ll 


128 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


punch  his  head  for  interrupting  me  at  my  break' 
fast.” 

Mr.  Treverton  filled  and  lighted  his  pipe  during 
his  servant’s  absence.  Before  the  tobacco  was 
well  alight,  Shrowl  returned,  and  reported  a 
man  visitor. 

“Did  you  punch  his  head”  asked  Mr.  Trever- 
ton. 

“No,”  said  Shrowl.  “I  picked  up  his  letter. 
He  poked  it  under  the  gate  and  went  away. 
Here  it  is.” 

The  letter  was  written  on  foolscap  paper,  su- 
perscribed in  a round  legal  hand.  As  Mr.  Trev- 
erton opened  it,  two  slips  cut  from  newspapers 
dropped  out.  One  fell  on  the  table  before  which 
he  was  sitting;  the  other  fluttered  to  the  floor. 
This  last  slip  Shrowl  picked  up  and  looked  over 
its  contents,  without  troubling  himself  to  go 
through  the  ceremony  of  first  asking  leave. 

After  slowly  drawing  in  and  slowly  puffing 
out  again  one  mouthful  of  tobacco-smoke,  Mr. 
Treverton  began  to  read  the  letter.  As  his  eye 
fell  on  the  first  lines,  his  lips  began  to  work  round 
the  mouth-piece  of  the  pipe  in  a manner  that  was 
very  unusual  with  him.  The  letter  was  not  long 
enough  to  require  him  to  turn  over  the  first  leaf 
of  it — it  ended  at  the  bottom  of  the  opening  sheet. 
He  read  it  down  to  the  signature — then  looked 
up  to  the  address,  and  went  through  it  again 
from  the  beginning.  His  lips  still  continued  to 
work  round  the  mouth-piece  of  the  pipe,  but  he 
smoked  no  more.  When  he  had  finished  the 
second  reading,  he  set  the  letter  down  very  gently 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


129 


on  the  table,  looked  at  his  servant  with  an  unac- 
customed vacancy  in  the  expression  of  his  eyes, 
and  took  the  pipe  out  of  his  mouth  with  a hand 
that  trembled  a little. 

“Shrowl,”  he  said,  very  quietly,  “my  brother, 
the  Captain,  is  drowned.” 

“I  know  he  is,”  answered  Shrowl,  without 
looking  up  from  the  newspaper-slip.  “I’m read- 
ing about  it  here.” 

“The  last  words  my  brother  said  to  me  when 
we  quarreled  about  the  player-woman,”  contin- 
ued Mr.  Treverton,  speaking  as  much  to  himself 
as  to  his  servant,  “were  that  I should  die  with- 
out one  kind  feeling  in  my  heart  toward  any  liv- 
ing creature.” 

“So  you  will,”  muttered  Shrowl,  turning  the 
slip  over  to  see  if  there  was  anything  worth  read- 
ing at  the  back  of  it. 

“I  wonder  what  he  thought  about  me  when  he 
was  dying?”  said  Mr.  Treverton,  abstractedly, 
taking  up  the  letter  again  from  the  table. 

“He  didn’t  waste  a thought  on  you  or  anybody 
else,”  remarked  Shrowl.  “If  he  thought  at  all, 
he  thought  about  how  he  could  save  his  life. 
When  he  had  done  thinking  about  that,  he  had 
done  living  too.”  With  this  expression  of  opin- 
ion Mr.  Shrowl  went  to  the  beer-barrel,  and  drew 
his  morning  draught. 

“Damn  that  player- woman !”  muttered  Mr. 
Treverton.  As  he  said  the  words  his  face  dark- 
ened and  his  lips  closed  firmly.  He  smoothed 
the  letter  out  on  the  table.  There  seemed  to  be 
some  doubt  in  his  mind  whether  he  had  mastered 
E — Vol  16 


130  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

all  its  contents  yet — some  idea  that  there  rught 
to  be  more  in  it  than  he  had  yet  discovered.  In 
going  over  it  for  the  third  time,  he  read  it  to  him- 
self aloud  and  very  slowly,  as  if  he  was  deter- 
mined to  fix  every  separate  word  firmly  in  his 
memory.  This  was  the  letter : 

“Sir — As  the  old  legal  adviser  and  faithful 
friend  of  your  family,  I am  desired  by  Mrs. 
Frankland,  formerly  Miss  Treverton,  to  acquaint 
you  with  the  sad  news  of  your  brother’s  death. 
This  deplorable  event  occurred  on  board  the  ship 
of  which  he  was  captain,  during  a gale  in  which 
the  vessel  was  lost  on  a reef  of  rocks  off  the  isl- 
and of  Antigua.  1 inclose  a detailed  account 
of  the  shipwreck,  extracted  from  The  Times , 
by  which  you  will  see  that  your  brother  died 
nobly  in  the  performance  of  his  duty  toward 
the  officers  and  men  whom  he  commanded.  I 
also  send  a slip  from  the  local  Cornish  paper, 
containing  a memoir  of  the  deceased  gentleman. 

“Before  closing  this  communication,  I must 
add  that  no  will  has  been  found,  after  the  most 
rigorous  search,  among  the  papers  of  the  late 
Captain  Treverton.  Having  disposed,  as  you 
know,  of  Porthgenna,  the  only  property  of  which 
he  was  possessed  at  the  time  of  his  death  was 
personal  property,  derived  from  the  sale  of  this 
estate;  and  this,  in  consequence  of  his  dying 
intestate,  will  go  in  due  course  of  law  to  his 
daughter,  as  his  nearest  of  kin. 

“I  am,  sir,  your  obedient  servant, 

“Alexander  Nixon.” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


131 


The  newspaper-slip,  which  had  fallen  on  the 
table,  contained  the  paragraph  from  The  Times . 
The  slip  from  the  Cornish  paper,  which  had 
dropped  to  the  floor,  Shrowl  poked  under  his 
master’s  eyes,  in  a fit  of  temporary  civility,  as 
soon  as  he  had  done  reading  it.  Mr.  Treverton 
took  not  the  slightest  notice  either  of  the  one  par- 
agraph or  the  other.  He  still  sat  looking  at  the 
letter,  even  after  he  had  read  it  for  the  third  time. 

“Why  don’t  you  give  the  strip  of  print  a turn, 
as  well  as  the  sheet  of  writing?”  asked  Shrowl. 
“Why  don’t  you  read  about  what  a great  man 
your  brother  was,  and  what  a good  life  he  led, 
and  what  a wonderful  handsome  daughter  he’s 
left  behind  him,  and  what  a capital  marriage 
she’s  made  along  with  the  man  that’s  owner  of 
your  old  family  estate?  She  don’t  want  your 
money  now,  at  any  rate!  The  ill  wind  that 
blowed  her  father’s  ship  on  the  rocks  has  blowed 
forty  thousand  pounds  of  good  into  her  lap,  Why 
don’t  you  read  about  it?  She  and  her  husband 
have  got  a better  house  in  Cornwall  than  you 
have  got  here.  Ain’t  you  glad  of  that?  They 
were  going  to  have  repaired  the  place  from  top 
to  bottom  for  your  brother  to  go  and  live  along 
with  ’em  in  clover  when  he  came  back  from  sea. 
Who  will  ever  repair  a place  for  you?  I wonder 
whether  your  niece  would  knock  the  old  house 
about  for  your  sake,  now,  if  you  was  to  clean 
yourself  up  and  go  and  ask  her?” 

At  the  last  question,  Shrowl  paused  in  the 
work  of  aggravation  — not  for  want  of  more 
words,  but  for  want  of  encouragement  to  utter 


132 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


them.  For  the  first  time  since  they  had  kept 
house  together,  he  had  tried  to  provoke  his  mas- 
ter and  had  failed.  Mr.  Treverton  listened,  or 
appeared  to  listen,  without  moving  a muscle — 
without  the  faintest  change  to  anger  in  his  face. 
The  only  words  he  said  when  Shrowl  had  done 
were  these  two — 

“Go  out!” 

Shrowl  was  not  an  easy  man  to  move,  but  he 
absolutely  changed  color  when  he  heard  himself 
suddenly  ordered  to  leave  the  room. 

“Go  out!”  reiterated  Mr.  Treverton.  “And 
hold  your  tongue  henceforth  and  forever  about 
my  brother  and  my  brother’s  daughter.  I never 
have  set  eyes  upon  the  player- woman’s  child,  and 
I never  will.  Hold  your  tongue — leave  me  alone 
— go  out!” 

“I’ll  be  even  with  him  for  this,”  thought 
Shrowl  as  he  slowly  withdrew  from  the  room. 

When  he  had  closed  the  door,  he  listened  out- 
side of  it,  and  heard  Mr.  Treverton  push  aside 
his  chair,  and  walk  up  and  down,  talking  to 
himself.  Judging  by  the  confused  words  that 
escaped  him,  Shrowl  concluded  that  his  thoughts 
were  still  running  on  the  “player- woman”  who 
had  set  his  brother  and  himself  at  variance.  He 
seemed  to  feel  a barbarous  sense  of  relief  in  vent- 
ing  his  dissatisfaction  with  himself,  after  the 
news  of  Captain  Trever ton’s  death,  on  the  mem- 
ory of  the  woman  whom  he  hated  so  bitterly, 
and  on  the  child  whom  she  had  left  behind  her. 

After  a while  the  low  rumbling  tones  of  his 
voice  ceased  altogether.  Shrowl  peeped  through 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


133 


the  key-hole,  and  saw  that  he  was  reading  the 
newspaper-slips  which  contained  the  account  of 
the  shipwreck  and  the  Memoir  of  his  brother. 
The  latter  adverted  to  some  of  those  family  par- 
ticulars which  the  vicar  of  Long  Beckley  had 
mentioned  to  his  guest;  and  the  writer  of  the 
Memoir  concluded  by  expressing  a hope  that  the 
bereavement  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland  had 
suffered  would  not  interfere  with  their  project 
for  repairing  Portligenna  Tower,  after  they  had 
gone  the  length  already  of  sending  a builder  to 
survey  the  place.  Something  in  the  wording  of 
that  paragraph  seemed  to  take  Mr.  Treverton’s 
memory  back  to  his  youth-time  when  the  old 
family  house  had  been  his  home.  He  whispered 
a few  words  to  himself  which  gloomily  referred 
to  the  days  that  were  gone,  rose  from  his  chair 
impatiently,  threw  both  the  newspaper-slips  into 
the  fire,  watched  them  while  they  were  burning, 
and  sighed  when  the  black  gossamer  ashes  floated 
upward  on  the  draught,  and  were  lost  in  the 
chimney. 

The  sound  of  that  sigh  startled  Shrowl  as  the 
sound  of  a pistol-shot  might  have  startled  an- 
other man.  His  bull-terrier  eyes  opened  wide  in 
astonishment,  and  he  shook  his  head  ominously 
as  he  walked  away  from  the  door. 


134 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WILL  THEY  COME? 

The  housekeeper  at  Porthgenna  Tower  had 
just  completed  the  necessary  preparations  for  the 
reception  of  her  master  and  mistress,  at  the  time 
mentioned  in  Mrs.  Frankland’s  letter  from  St. 
Swithin’s-on-Sea,  when  she  was  startled  by  re- 
ceiving a note  sealed  with  black  wax,  and  sur- 
rounded by  a thick  mourning  border.  The  note 
briefly  communicated  the  news  of  Captain  Trev- 
erton’s  death,  and  informed  her  that  the  visit  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland  to  Porthgenna  was  de- 
ferred for  an  indefinite  period. 

By  the  same  post  the  builder,  who  was  superin- 
tending the  renovation  of  the  west  staircase,  also 
received  a letter,  requesting  him  to  send  in  his 
account  as  soon  as  the  repairs  on  which  he  was 
then  engaged  were  completed;  and  telling  him 
that  Mr.  Frankland  was  unable,  for  the  present, 
to  give  any  further  attention  to  the  project  for 
making  the  north  rooms  habitable.  On  the  re- 
ceipt of  this  communication,  the  builder  withdrew 
himself  and  his  men  as  soon  as  the  west  stairs 
and  banisters  had  been  made  secure;  and  Porth- 
genna Tower  was  again  left  to  the  care  of  the 
housekeeper  and  her  servant,  without  master 
or  mistress,  friends  or  strangers,  to  thread  its 
solitary  passages  or  enliven  its  empty  rooms. 

From  this  time  eight  months  passed  away,  and 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


135 


the  housekeeper  heard  nothing  of  her  master  and 
mistress,  except  through  the  medium  of  para- 
graphs in  the  local  newspaper,  which  dubiously 
referred  to  the  probability  of  their  occupying  the 
old  house,  and  interesting  themselves  in  the  af- 
fairs of  their  tenantry,  at  no  very  distant  period. 
Occasionally,  too,  when  business  took  him  to  the 
post-town,  the  steward  collected  reports  about  his 
employers  among  the  old  friends  and  dependents 
of  the  Treverton  family. 

From  these  sources  of  information,  the  house- 
keeper was  led  to  conclude  that  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Frankland  had  returned  to  Long  Beckley,  after 
receiving  the  news  of  Captain  Treverton’s  death, 
and  had  lived  there  for  some  months  in  strict 
retirement.  When  they  left  that  place,  they 
moved  (if  the  newspaper  report  was  to  be  cred- 
ited) to  the  neighborhood  of  London,  and  occu- 
pied the  house  of  some  friends  who  were  travel- 
ing on  the  Continent.  Here  they  must  have 
remained  for  some  time,  for  the  new  year  came 
and  brought  no  rumors  of  any  change  in  their 
place  of  abode.  January  and  February  passed 
without  any  news  of  them.  Early  in  March  the 
steward  had  occasion  to  go  to  the  post-town. 
When  he  returned  to  Porthgenna,  he  came  back 
with  a new  report  relating  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Frankland,  which  excited  the  housekeeper’s  in- 
terest in  an  extraordinary  degree.  In  two  differ- 
ent quarters,  each  highly  respectable,  the  steward 
had  heard  it  facetiously  announced  that  the  do- 
mestic responsibilities  of  his  master  and  mistress 
were  likely  to  be  increased  by  their  having  a 


136 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


nurse  to  engage  and  a crib  to  buy  at  the  end  of 
the  spring  or  the  beginning  of  the  summer.  In 
plain  English,  among  the  many  babies  who 
might  be  expected  to  make  their  appearance  in 
the  world  in  the  course  of  the  next  three  months, 
there  was  one  who  would  inherit  the  name  of 
Frankland,  and  who  (if  the  infant  luckily  turned 
out  to  be  a boy)  would  cause  a sensation  through- 
out West  Cornwall  as  heir  to  the  Porthgenna 
estate. 

In  the  next  month,  the  month  of  April,  before 
the  housekeeper  and  the  steward  had  done  dis- 
cussing their  last  and  most  important  fragment 
of  news,  the  postman  made  his  welcome  appear- 
ance at  Porthgenna  Tower,  and  brought  another 
note  from  Mrs.  Frankland.  The  housekeeper’s 
face  brightened  with  unaccustomed  pleasure  and 
surprise  as  she  read  the  first  line.  The  letter 
announced  that  the  long-deferred  visit  of  her 
master  and  mistress  to  the  old  house  would  take 
place  early  in  May,  and  that  they  might  be  ex- 
pected to  arrive  any  day  from  the  first  to  the 
tenth  of  the  month. 

The  reasons  which  had  led  the  owners  of  Porth- 
genna to  fix  a period,  at  last,  for  visiting  their 
country  seat,  were  connected  with  certain  par- 
ticulars into  which  Mrs.  Frankland  had  not 
thought  it  advisable  to  enter  in  her  letter.  The 
plain  facts  of  the  case  were,  that  a little  discus- 
sion had  arisen  between  the  husband  and  wife 
in  relation  to  the  next  place  of  residence  which 
they  should  select,  after  the  return  from  the 
Continent  of  the  friends  whose  house  they  were 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


137 


occupying.  Mr.  Frankland  had  very  reasonably 
suggested  returning  again  to  Long  Beckley — not 
only  because  all  their  oldest  friends  lived  in  the 
neighborhood,  but  also  (and  circumstances  made 
this  an  important  consideration)  because  the 
place  had  the  advantage  of  possessing  an  excel- 
lent resident  medical  man.  Unfortunately  this 
latter  advantage,  so  far  from  carrying  any  weight 
with  it  in  Mrs.  Frankland’s  estimation,  actually 
prejudiced  her  mind  against  the  project  of  going 
to  Long  Beckley.  She  had  always,  she  acknowl- 
edged, felt  an  unreasonable  antipathy  to  the  doc- 
tor there.  He  might  be  a very  skillful,  an  ex- 
tremely polite,  and  an  undeniably  respectable 
man;  but  she  never  had  liked  him,  and  never 
should,  and  she  was  resolved  to  oppose  the  plan 
for  living  at  Long  Beckley,  because  the  execu- 
tion of  it  would  oblige  her  to  commit  herself  to 
his  care. 

Two  other  places  of  residence  were  next  sug- 
gested ; but  Mrs.  Frankland  had  the  same  objec- 
tion to  oppose  to  both— in  each  case  the  resident 
doctor  would  be  a stranger  to  her,  and  she  did 
not  like  the  notion  of  being  attended  by  a stran- 
ger. Finally,  as  she  had  all  along  anticipated, 
the  choice  of  the  future  abode  was  left  entirely 
to  her  own  inclinations;  and  then,  to  the  amaze- 
ment of  her  husband  and  her  friends,  she  imme- 
diately decided  on  going  to  Porthgenna.  She 
had  formed  this  strange  project,  and  was  now 
resolved  on  executing  it,  partly  because  she  was 
more  curious  than  ever  to  see  the  place  again; 
partly  because  the  doctor  who  had  been  with  her 


138 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


mother  in  Mrs.  Treverton’s  last-illness,  and  who 
had  attended  her  through  all  her  own  little  mala- 
dies when  she  was  a child,  was  still  living  and 
practicing  in  the  Porthgenna  neighborhood. 
Her  father  and  the  doctor  had  been  old  cronies, 
and  had  met  for  years  at  the  same  chess-board 
every  Saturday  night.  They  had  kept  up  their 
friendship,  when  circumstances  separated  them, 
by  exchanges  of  Christmas  presents  every  year; 
and  when  the  sad  news  of  the  Captain’s  death 
had  reached  Cornwall,  the  doctor  had  written  a 
letter  of  sympathy  and  condolence  to  Rosamond, 
speaking  in  such  terms  of  his  former  friend  and 
patron  as  she  could  never  forget.  He  must  be 
a nice,  fatherly  old  man  now,  the  man  of  all 
others  who  was  fittest,  on  every  account,  to  at- 
tend her.  In  short,  Mrs.  Frankland  was  just  as 
strongly  prejudiced  in  favor  of  employing  the 
Porthgenna  doctor  as  she  was  prejudiced  against 
employing  the  Long  Beckley  doctor;  and  she 
ended,  as  all  young  married  women  with  affec- 
tionate husbands  may,  and  do  end,  whenever 
they  please — by  carrying  her  own  point,  and 
having  her  own  way. 

On  the  first  of  May  the  west  rooms  were  all 
ready  for  the  reception  of  the  master  and  mis- 
tress of  the  house.  The  beds  were  aired,  the 
carpets  cleaned,  the  sofas  and  chairs  uncovered. 
The  housekeeper  put  on  her  satin  gown  and  her 
garnet  brooch;  the  maid  followed  suit,  at  a re- 
spectful distance,  in  brown  merino  and  a pink 
ribbon;  and  the  steward,  determining  not  to  be 
outdone  by  the  women,  arrayed  himself  in  a 


THE  DEAD  SECRET 


139 


black  brocaded  waistcoat,  which  almost  rivaled 
the  gloom  and  grandeur  of  the  housekeeper’s 
satin  gown.  The  day  wore  on,  evening  closed 
in,  bed -time  came,  and  there  were  no  signs  yet 
of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland. 

But  the  first  was  an  early  day  on  which  to 
expect  them.  The  steward  thought  so,  and  the 
housekeeper  added  that  it  would  be  foolish  to 
feel  disappointed,  even  if  they  did  not  arrive 
until  the  fifth.  The  fifth  came,  and  still  noth- 
ing happened.  The  sixth,  seventh,  eighth,  and 
ninth  followed,  and  no  sound  of  the  expected 
carriage- wheels  came  near  the  lonely  house. 

On  the  tenth,  and  last  day,  the  housekeeper, 
the  steward,  and  the  maid,  all  three  rose  earlier 
than  usual ; all  three  opened  and  shut  doors,  and 
went  up  and  down  stairs  oftener  than  was  need- 
ful; ail  three  looked  out  perpetually  toward  the 
moor  and  the  high-road,  and  thought  the  view 
flatter  and  duller  and  emptier  than  ever  it  had 
appeared  to  them  before.  The  day  waned,  the 
sunset  came;  darkness  changed  the  perpetual 
looking-out  of  the  housekeeper,  the  steward,  and 
the  maid  into  perpetual  listening;  ten  o’clock 
struck,  and  still  there  was  nothing  to  be  heard 
when  they  went  to  the  open  window  but  the 
wearisome  beating  of  the  surf  on  the  sandy  shore. 

The  housekeeper  began  to  calculate  the  time 
that  would  be  consumed  on  the  railway  journey 
from  London  to  Exeter,  and  on  the  posting  jour- 
ney afterward  through  Cornwall  to  Porthgenna. 
When  had  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland  left  Exeter? 
— that  was  the  first  question.  And  what  delays 


140 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


might  they  have  encountered  afterward  in  get- 
ting horses? — that  was  the  second,  The  house- 
keeper and  the  steward  differed  in  debating  these 
points;  but  both  agreed  that  it  was  necessary  to 
sit  up  until  midnight,  on  the  chance  of  the  mas- 
ter and  mistress  arriving  late.  The  maid,  hear- 
ing her  sentence  of  banishment  from  bed  for  the 
next  two  hours  pronounced  by  the  superior  au- 
thorities, yawned  and  sighed  mournfully — was 
reproved  by  the  steward — and  was  furnished  by 
the  housekeeper  with  a book  of  hymns  to  read  to 
keep  up  her  spirits. 

Twelve  o’clock  struck,  and  still  the  monoto- 
nous beating  of  the  surf,  varied  occasionally  by 
those  loud,  mysterious,  cracking  noises  which 
make  themselves  heard  at  night  in  an  old  house, 
were  the  only  audible  sounds.  The  steward  was 
dozing;  the  maid  was  fast  asleep  under  the  sooth- 
ing influence  of  the  hymns ; the  housekeeper  was 
wide  awake,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  window, 
and  her  head  shaking  forebodingly  from  time  to 
time.  At  the  last  stroke  of  the  clock  she  left  her 
chair,  listened  attentively,  and  still  hearing  noth- 
ing, shook  the  maid  irritably  by  the  shoulder, 
and  stamped  on  the  floor  to  arouse  the  steward. 

“We  may  go  to  bed,”  she  said.  “They  are 
not  coming.  This  is  the  second  time  they  have 
disappointed  us.  The  first  time  the  Captain’s 
death  stood  in  the  way.  What  stops  them  now? 
Another  death?  I shouldn’t  wonder  if  it  was.” 

“Now  I think  of  it,  no  more  should  I,”  said 
the  steward,  ominously  knitting  his  brows. 

“Another  death!”  repeated  the  housekeeper, 


THE  DEAD  SECRET* 


141 


superstitiously.  “If  it  is  another  death,  I should 
take  it,  in  their  place,  as  a warning  to  keep  away 
from  the  house.’ 5 


CHAPTER  III. 

MRS.  JAZEPH. 

If,  instead  of  hazarding  the  guess  that  a sec- 
ond death  stood  in  the  way  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Prankland’s  arrival  at  Porthgenna,  the  house- 
keeper had,  by  way  of  variety,  surmised  this 
time  that  a birth  was  the  obstacle  which  delayed 
them,  she  might  have  established  her  character 
as  a wise  woman,  by  hitting  at  random  on  the 
actual  truth.  Her  master  and  mistress  had 
started  from  London  on  the  ninth  of  May,  and 
had  got  through  the  greater  part  of  their  railway 
journey,  when  they  were  suddenly  obliged  to 
stop,  on  Mrs.  Frankland’s  account,  at  the  sta- 
tion of  a small  town  in  Somersetshire.  The  lit- 
tle visitor,  who  was  destined  to  increase  the  do- 
mestic responsibilities  of  the  young  married 
couple,  had  chosen  to  enter  on  the  scene,  in  the 
character  of  a robust  boy -baby,  a month  earlier 
than  he  had  been  expected,  and  had  modestly 
preferred  to  make  his  first  appearance  in  a small 
Somersetshire  inn,  rather  than  wait  to  be  cere- 
moniously welcomed  to  life  in  the  great  house  of 
Porthgenna,  which  he  was  one  day  to  inherit. 

Very  few  events  had  ever  produced  a greater 
sensation  in  the  town  of  West  Winston  than  the 
one  small  event  of  the  unexpected  stoppage  of 


142 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland’s  journey  at  that  place. 
Never  since  the  last  election  had  the  landlord 
and  landlady  of  the  Tiger’s  Head  Hotel  bustled 
about  their  house  in  such  a fever  of  excitement 
as  possessed  them  when  Mr.  Frankland’s  servant 
and  Mrs.  Frankland’s  maid  drew  up  at  the  door  in 
a fly  from  the  station,  to  announce  that  their  mas- 
ter and  mistress  were  behind,  and  that  the  larg- 
est and  quietest  rooms  in  the  hotel  were  wanted 
immediately,  under  the  most  unexpected  circum- 
stances. Never  since  he  had  triumphantly  passed 
his  examination  had  young  Mr.  Orridge,  the 
new  doctor,  who  had  started  in  life  by  purchas- 
ing the  West  Winston  practice,  felt  such  a thrill 
of  pleasurable  agitation  pervade  him  from  top  to 
toe  as  when  he  heard  that  the  wife  of  a blind 
gentleman  of  great  fortune  had  been  taken  ill  on 
the  railway  journey  from  London  to  Devonshire, 
and  required  all  that  his  skill  and  attention  could 
do  for  her  without  a moment’s  delay.  Never 
since  the  last  archery  meeting  and  fancy  fair  had 
the  ladies  of  the  town  been  favored  with  such 
an  all-absorbing  subject  for  conversation  as  was 
now  afforded  to  them  by  Mrs.  Frankland’s  mis- 
hap. Fabulous  accounts  of  the  wife’s  beauty 
and  the  husband’s  fortune  poured  from  the  orig- 
inal source  of  the  Tiger’s  Head,  and  trickled 
through  the  highways  and  byways  of  the  little 
town.  There  were  a dozen  different  reports,  one 
more  elaborately  false  than  the  other,  about  Mr. 
Frankland’s  blindness,  and  the  cause  of  it;  about 
the  lamentable  condition  in  which  his  wife  had 
arrived  at  the  hotel;  and  about  the  painful  sense 


THE  BEAD  SECRET. 


143 


of  responsibility  which  had  unnerved  the  inex 
perienced  Mr.  Orridge  from  the  first  moment 
when  he  set  eyes  on  his  patient.  It  was  not  till 
eight  o’clock  in  the  evening  that  the  public  mind 
was  relieved  at  last  from  all  suspense  by  an  an- 
nouncement that  the  child  was  born,  and  scream- 
ing lustily;  that  the  mother  was  wonderfully 
well,  considering  all  things;  and  that  Mr.  Or- 
ridge had  covered  himself  with  distinction  by  the 
skill,  tenderness,  and  attention  with  which  he 
had  performed  his  duties. 

On  the  next  day,  and  the  next,  and  for  a week 
after  that,  the  accounts  wore  still  favorable. 
But  on  the  tenth  day  a catastrophe  was  re- 
ported. The  nurse  who  was  in  attendance  on 
Mrs.  Frankland  had  been  suddenly  taken  ill, 
and  was  rendered  quite  incapable  of  performing 
any  further  service  for  at  least  a week  to  come, 
and  perhaps  for  a much  longer  period. 

In  a large  town  this  misfortune  might  have 
been  readily  remedied,  but  in  a place  like  West 
Winston  it  was  not  so  easy  to  supply  the  loss  cf 
an  experienced  nurse  at  a few  hours’  notice. 
When  Mr.  Orridge  was  consulted  in  the  new 
emergency,  he  candidly  acknowledged  that  he 
required  a little  time  for  consideration  before  he 
could  undertake  to  find  another  professed  nurse 
of  sufficient  character  and  experience  to  wait  on 
a lady  like  Mrs.  Frankland.  Mr.  Frankland 
suggested  telegraphing  to  a medical  friend  in 
London  for  a nurse,  but  the  doctor  was  unwill- 
ing for  many  reasons  to  adopt  that  plau,  except 
as  a last  resource.  It  would  take  some  time  t > 


144 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


find  the  right  person,  and  to  send  her  to  West 
Winston;  and,  moreover,  he  would  infinitely 
prefer  employing  a woman  with  whose  character 
and  capacity  he  was  himself  acquainted.  He 
therefore  proposed  that  Mrs.  Frankland  should 
be  trusted  for  a few  hours  to  the  care  of  her 
maid,  under  supervision  of  the  landlady  of  the 
Tiger’s  Head,  while  he  made  inquiries  in  the 
neighborhood.  If  the  inquiries  produced  no  sat- 
isfactory result,  he  should  be  ready,  when  he 
called  in  the  evening,  to  adopt  Mr.  Frankland’s 
idea  of  telegraphing  to  London  for  a nurse. 

On  proceeding  to  make  the  investigation  that 
he  had  proposed,  Mr.  Orridge,  although  he  spared 
no  trouble,  met  with  no  success.  He  found  plenty 
of  volunteers  for  the  office  of  nurse,  but  they 
were  all  loud-voiced,  clumsy-handed,  heavy- 
footed  countrywomen,  kind  and  willing  enough, 
but  sadly  awkward,  blundering  attendants  to 
place  at  the  bedside  of  such  a lady  as  Mrs. 
Frankland.  The  morning  hours  passed  away, 
and  the  afternoon  came,  and  still  Mr.  Orridge 
had  found  no  substitute  for  the  invalided  nurse 
whom  he  could  venture  to  engage. 

At  two  o’clock  he  had  half  an  hour’s  drive  be- 
fore him  to  a country-house  where  he  had  a child- 
patient  to  see.  “ Perhaps  I may  remember  some- 
body  who  may  do,  on  the  way  out  or  on  the  way 
back  again,”  thought  Mr.  Orridge,  as  he  got  into 
his  gig.  “I  have  some  hours  at  my  disposal 
still  before  the  time  comes  for  my  evening  visit 
at  the  inn.” 

Puzzling  his  brains,  with  the  best  intention  in 


THE  DEAD  SECRET* 


145 


the  world,  all  along  the  road  to  the  country- 
house,  Mr.  Orridge  reached  his  destination  with- 
out having  arrived  at  any  other  conclusion  than 
that  he  might  just  as  well  state  his  difficulty  to 
Mrs.  Nor  bury,  the  lady  whose  child  he  was 
about  to  prescribe  for.  He  had  called  on  her 
when  he  bought  the  West  Winston  practice,  and 
had  found  her  one  of  those  frank,  good-humored, 
middle-aged  women  who  are  generally  desig- 
nated by  the  epithet  “ motherly.’ ’ Her  hus- 
band was  a country  squire,  famous  for  his  old 
politics,  his  old  stories,  and  his  old  wine.  He 
had  seconded  his  wife’s  hearty  reception  of  the 
new  doctor,  with  all  the  usual  jokes  about  never 
giving  him  any  employment,  and  never  letting 
any  bottles  into  the  house  except  the  bottles  that 
went  down  into  the  cellar.  Mr.  Orridge  had 
been  amused  by  the  husband  and  pleased  with 
the  wife;  and  he  thought  it  might  be  at  least 
worth  while,  before  he  gave  up  all  hope  of  find- 
ing a fit  nurse,  to  ask  Mrs.  Norbury,  as  an  old 
resident  in  the  West  Winston  neighborhood,  for 
a word  of  advice. 

Accordingly,  after  seeing  the  child,  and  pro- 
nouncing that  there  were  no  symptoms  about  the 
little  patient  which  need  cause  the  slightest 
alarm  to  anybody,  Mr.  Orridge  paved  the  way 
for  a statement  of  the  difficulty  that  beset  him 
by  asking  Mrs.  Norbury  if  she  had  heard  of  the 
“ interesting  event”  that  had  happened  at  the 
Tiger’s  Head. 

“You  mean,”  answered  Mrs.  Norbmy,  who 
was  a downright  woman,  and  a resolute  speaker 


146 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


of  the  plainest  possible  English — “You  mean, 
have  I heard  about  that  poor  unfortunate  lady 
who  was  taken  ill  on  her  journey,  and  who  had 
a child  born  at  the  inn?  We  have  heard  so 
much,  and  no  more — living  as  we  do  (thank 
Heaven!)  out  of  reach  of  the  West  Winston  gos- 
sip. How  is  the  lady?  Who  is  she?  Is  the 
child  well?  Is  she  tolerably  comfortable?  poor 
thing!  * Can  I send  her  anything,  or  do  any- 
thing for  her?” 

“You  would  do  a great  thing  for  her,  and  ren- 
der a great  assistance  to  me,”  said  Mr.  Orridge, 
“if  you  could  tell  me  of  any  respectable  woman 
in  this  neighborhood  who  would  be  a proper 
nurse  for  her.” 

“You  don’t  mean  to  say  that  the  poor  creature 
has  not  got  a nurse!”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Norbury. 

“She  has  had  the  best  nurse  in  West  Win- 
ston,” replied  Mr.  Orridge.  “But,  most  unfort- 
unately, the  woman  was  taken  ill  this  morning, 
and  was  obliged  to  go  home.  I am  now  at  my 
wit’s  end  for  somebody  to  supply  her  place. 
Mrs.  Frankland  has  been  used  to  the  luxury  of 
being  well  waited  on ; and  where  I am  to  find  an 
attendant  who  is  likely  to  satisfy  her,  is  more 
than  I can  tell.” 

“Frankland,  did  you  say  her  name  was?”  in- 
quired Mrs.  Norbury. 

“Yes.  She  is,  I understand,  a daughter  of 
that  Captain  Treverton  who  was  lost  with  his 
ship  a year  ago  in  the  West  Indies.  Perhaps 
you  may  remember  the  account  of  the  disaster  in 
the  newspapers?” 


TH E DEAD  SECRET. 


147 


■‘Of  course  I do!  and  I remember  the  Captain 
too.  I was  acquainted  with  him  when  he  was  a 
young  man,  at  Portsmouth.  His  daughter  and  I 
ought  not  to  be  strangers,  especially  under  such 
circumstances  as  the  poor  thing  is  placed  in  now. 
I will  call  at  the  inn,  Mr.  Orridge,  as  soon  as 
you  will  allow  me  to  introduce  myself  to  her. 
But,  in  the  meantime,  what  is  to  be  done  in  this 
difficulty  about  the  nurse?  Who  is  with  Mrs. 
Frankland  now?” 

“Her  maid;  but  she  is  a very  young  woman, 
and  doesn’t  understand  nursing  duties.  The 
landlady  of  the  inn  is  ready  to  help  when  she 
can ; but  then  she  has  constant  demands  on  her 
time  and  attention.  I suppose  we  shall  have  to 
telegraph  to  London  and  get  somebody  sent  here 
by  railway.” 

“And  that  will  take  time,  of  course.  And  the 
new  nurse  may  turn  out  to  be  a drunkard  or  a 
thief,  or  both — when  you  have  got  her  here,” 
said  the  outspoken  Mrs.  Norbury.  “Dear,  dear 
me!  can't  we  do  something  better  than  that?  I 
am  ready,  I am  sure,  to  take  any  trouble,  or 
make  any  sacrifice,  if  I can  be  of  use  to  Mrs. 
Frankland.  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Orridge,  I think 
it  would  be  a good  plan  if  we  consulted  my 
housekeeper,  Mrs.  Jazeph.  She  is  an  odd  wo- 
man, with  an  odd  name,  you  will  say;  but  she 
has  lived  with  me  in  this  house  more  than  five 
years,  and  she  may  know  of  somebody  in  our 
neighborhood  who  might  suit  you,  though  I 
don’t.”  With  those  words,  Mrs.  Norbury  rang 
the  bell,  and  ordered  the  servant  who  answered 


148 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


it  to  tell  Mrs.  Jazeph  that  she  was  wanted  up- 
stairs immediately. 

After  the  lapse  of  a minute  or  so  a soft  knock 
was  heard  at  the  door,  and  the  housekeeper  en- 
tered the  room. 

Mr.  Orridge  looked  at  her,  the  moment  she  ap- 
peared, with  an  interest  and  curiosity  for  which 
he  was  hardly  able  to  account.  He  judged  her, 
at  a rough  guess,  to  be  a woman  of  about  fifty 
years  of  age.  At  the  first  glance,  his  medical 
eye  detected  that  some  of  the  intricate  machinery 
of  the  nervous  system  had  gone  wrong  with  Mrs. 
Jazeph.  He  noted  the  painful  working  of  the 
muscles  of  her  face,  and  the  hectic  flush  that  flew 
into  her  cheeks  when  she  entered  the  room  and 
found  a visitor  there.  He  observed  a strangely 
scared  look  in  her  eyes,  and  remarked  that  it  did 
not  leave  them  when  the  rest  of  her  face  became 
gradually  composed.  6 4 That  woman  has  had 
some  dreadful  fright,  some  great  grief,  or  some 
wasting  complaint,”  he  thought  to  himself.  “I 
wonder  which  it  is?” 

4 ‘This  is  Mr.  Orridge,  the  medical  gentleman 
who  has  lately  settled  at  West  Winston,”  said 
Mrs.  Nor  bury,  addressing  the  housekeeper.  “He 
is  in  attendance  on  a lady  who  was  obliged  to 
stop,  on  her  journey  westward,  at  our  station, 
and  who  is  now  staying  at  the  Tiger’s  Head. 
You  have  heard  something  about  it,  have  you 
not,  Mrs.  Jazeph?” 

Mrs.  Jazeph,  standing  just  inside  the  door, 
looked  respectfully  toward  the  doctor,  and  an- 
swered in  the  affirmative.  Although  she  only 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


149 


said  the  two  common  words,  “Yes,  ma’am/’  in 
a quiet,  uninterested  way,  Mr.  Orridge  was 
struck  by  the  sweetness  and  tenderness  of  her 
voice.  If  he  had  not  been  looking  at  her,  he 
would  have  supposed  it  to  be  the  voice  of  a 
young  woman.  His  eyes  remained  fixed  on  her 
after  she  had  spoken,  though  he  felt  that  they 
ought  to  have  been  looking  toward  her  mistress. 
He,  the  most  unobservant  of  men  in  such  things, 
found  himself  noticing  her  dress,  so  that  he  re- 
membered, long  afterward,  the  form  of  the  spot- 
less muslin  cap  that  primly  covered  her  smooth 
gray  hair,  and  the  quiet  brown  color  of  the  silk 
dress  that  fitted  so  neatly  and  hung  around  her 
in  such  spare  and  disciplined  folds.  The  little 
confusion  which  she  evidently  felt  at  finding 
herself  the  object  of  the  doctor’s  attention  did 
not  betray  her  into  the  slightest  awkwardness 
of  gesture  or  manner.  If  there  can  be  such  a 
thing,  physically  speaking,  as  the  grace  of  re- 
straint, that  was  the  grace  which  seemed  to  gov- 
ern Mrs.  Jazeph’s  slightest  movements;  which 
led  her  feet  smoothly  over  the  carpet,  as  she  ad- 
vanced when  her  mistress  next  spoke  to  her; 
which  governed  the  action  of  her  wan  right 
hand  as  it  rested  lightly  on  a table  by  her  side, 
while  she  stopped  to  hear  the  next  question  that 
was  addressed  to  her. 

“Well,”  continued  Mrs.  Nor  bury,  “this  poor 
lady  was  just  getting  on  comfortably,  when  the 
nurse  who  was  looking  after  her  fell  ill  this 
morning;  and  there  she  is  now,  in  a strange 
place,  with  a first  child,  and  no  proper  attend- 


150 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


ance — no  woman  of  age  and  experience  to  help 
her  as  she  ought  to  be  helped.  We  want  some- 
body fit  to  wait  on  a delicate  woman  who  has 
seen  nothing  of  the  rough  side  of  humanity. 
Mr.  Orridge  can  find  nobody  at  a day’s  notice, 
and  I can  tell  him  of  nobody.  Can  you  help  us, 
Mrs.  Jazeph?  Are  there  any  women  down  in 
the  village,  or  among  Mr.  Norbury’s  tenants, 
who  understand  nursing,  and  have  some  tact 
and  tenderness  to  recommend  them  into  the 
bargain?” 

Mrs.  Jazeph  reflected  for  a little  while,  and 
then  said,  very  respectfully,  but  very  briefly 
also,  and  still  without  any  appearance  of  inter- 
est in  her  manner,  that  she  knew  of  no  one  whom 
she  could  recommend. 

‘‘Don’t  make  too  sure  of  that  till  you  have 
thought  a little  longer,”  said  Mrs.  Norbury.  “I 
have  a particular  interest  in  serving  this  lady, 
for  Mr.  Orridge  told  me  just  before  you  came  in 
that  she  is  the  daughter  of  Captain  Treverton, 
whose  shipwreck — ” 

The  instant  those  words  were  spoken,  Mrs. 
Jazeph  turned  round  with  a start,  and  looked 
at  the  doctor.  Apparently  forgetting  that  her 
right  hand  was  on  the  table,  she  moved  it  so 
suddenly  that  it  struck  against  a bronze  statuette 
of  a dog  placed  on  some  writing  materials.  The 
statuette  fell  to  the  ground,  and  Mrs.  Jazeph 
stooped  to  pick  it  up  with  a cry  of  alarm  which 
seemed  strangely  exaggerated  by  comparison 
with  the  trifling  nature  of  the  accident. 

“Bless  the  woman!  what  is  she  frightened 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


151 


about?9’  exclaimed  Mrs.  Norbury,  4;The  dog 
is  not  hurt — put  it  back  again!  This  is  the 
first  time.  Mrs  Jazeph,  that  I ever  knew  you 
do  an  awkward  thing.  You  may  take  that  as 
a compliment,  I think.  Well,  as  I was  saying, 
this  lady  is  the  daughter  of  Captain  Treverton, 
whose  dreadful  shipwreck  we  all  read  about  in  the 
papers.  I knew  her  father  in  my  early  days,  and 
on  that  account  1 am  doubly  anxious  to  be  of  ser- 
vice to  her  now.  Do  think  again.  Is  there  nobody 
within  reach  who  can  be  trusted  to  nurse  her?” 

The  doctor,  still  watching  Mrs.  Jazeph  with 
that  secret  medical  interest  of  his  in  her  case, 
had  seen  her  turn  so  deadly  pale  when  she  started 
and  looked  toward  him  that  lie  would  not  have 
been  surprised  if  she  had  fainted  on  the  spot. 
He  now  observed  that  she  changed  color  again 
when  her  mistress  left  off  speaking.  The  hectic 
red  tinged  her  cheeks  once  more  with  two  bright 
spots.  Her  timid  eyes  wandered  uneasily  about 
the  room;  and  her  fingers,  as  she  clasped  her 
hands  together,  interlaced  themselves  mechani- 
cally. 4 4 That  would  be  an  interesting  case  to 
treat,”  thought  the  doctor,  following  every  nerv- 
ous movement  of  the  housekeeper’s  hands  with 
watchful  eyes. 

4 4 Do  think  again,”  repeated  Mrs.  Norbury. 
44I  am  so  anxious  to  help  this  poor  lady  through 
her  difficulty,  if  I can.” 

44I  am  very  sorry,”  said  Mrs.  Jazeph,  in  faint, 
trembling  tones,  but  still  always  with  the  same 
sweetness  in  her  voice — 4 4 very  sorry  that  I can 
think  of  no  one  who  is  fit;  but — ” 


152 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


She  stopped.  No  shy  child  on  its  first  intro- 
duction to  the  society  of  strangers  could  have 
looked  more  disconcerted  than  she  looked  now. 
Her  eyes  were  on  the  ground;  her  color  was 
deepening;  the  fingers  of  her  clasped  hands 
were  working  together  faster  and  faster  every 
moment. 

6 4 But  what?”  asked  Mrs.  Norbury. 

“I  was  about  to  say,  ma’am,”  answered  Mrs. 
Jazeph,  speaking  with  the  greatest  difficulty  and 
uneasiness,  and  never  raising  her  eyes  to  her 
mistress’s  face,  “that,  rather  than  this  lady 
should  want  for  a nurse,  I would — considering 
the  interest,  ma’am,  which  you  take  in  her — 1 
wcnid,  if  you  thought  you  could  spare  me — ” 

44 What,  nurse  her  yourself!”  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Norbury.  4 4 Upon  my  word,  although  you  have 
got  to  it  in  rather  a roundabout  way,  you  have 
come  to  the  point  at  last,  in  a manner  which 
does  infinite  credit  to  your  kindness  of  heart  and 
your  readiness  to  make  yourself  useful.  As  to 
sparing  you,  of  course  I am  not  so  selfish,  under 
the  circumstances,  as  to  think  twice  of  the  in- 
convenience of  losing  my  housekeeper.  But  the 
question  is,  are  you  competent  as  well  as  will- 
ing? Have  you  ever  had  any  practice  in  nurs- 
ing?” 

44 Yes,  ma’am,”  answered  Mrs.  Jazeph,  still 
without  raising  her  eyes  from  the  ground. 

4 4 Shortly  after  my  marriage”  (the  flush  disap- 
peared and  her  face  turned  pale  again  as  she  said 
those  words),  4 4I  had  some  practice  in  nursing, 
and  continued  it  at  intervals  until  the  time  of 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


153 


my  husband’s  death.  I only  presume  to  offer 
myself,  sir,”  she  went  on,  turning  toward  the 
doctor,  and  becoming  more  earnest  and  self-pos- 
sessed in  her  manner  as  she  did  so — “1  only  pre- 
sume to  offer  myself,  with  my  mistress’s  per= 
mission,  as  a substitute  for  a nurse  until  some 
better  qualified  person  can  be  found.” 

“What  do  you  say,  Mr.  Orridge?”  asked  Mrs, 
Nor  bury. 

It  had  been  the  doctor’s  turn  to  start  when  he 
first  heard  Mrs.  Jazeph  propose  herself  for  the 
office  of  nurse.  He  hesitated  before  he  answered 
Mrs.  Norbury's  question,  then  said: 

“I  can  have  but  one  doubt  about  the  propriety 
of  thankfully  accepting  Mrs.  Jazeph’s  offer.” 

Mrs.  Jazeph’s  timid  eyes  looked  anxiously  and 
perplexedly  at  him  as  he  spoke.  Mrs.  Nor  bury, 
in  her  downright,  abrupt  way,  asked  immediately 
what  the  doubt  was. 

“I  feel  some  uncertainty,”  replied  Mr.  Or- 
ridge, “as  to  whether  Mrs.  Jazeph — she  will  par- 
don me,  as  a medical  man,  for  mentioning  it — as 
to  whether  Mrs.  Jazeph  is  strong  enough,  and 
has  her  nerves  sufficiently  under  control,  to  per- 
form  the  duties  which  she  is  so  kindly  ready  to 
undertake.” 

In  spite  of  the  politeness  of  the  explanation, 
Mrs.  Jazeph  was  evidently  disconcerted  and  dis- 
tressed by  it.  A certain  quiet,  uncomplaining 
sadness,  which  it  was  very  touching  to  see,  over- 
spread her  face  as  she  turned  away,  without  an- 
other word,  and  walked  slowly  to  the  door. 

“Don’t  go  yet!”  cried  Mrs.  Norbury,  kindly, 


154: 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“or,  at  least,  if  you  do  go,  come  back  again  in 
five  minutes,  I am  quite  certain  we  shall  have 
something  more  to  say  to  you  then.” 

Mrs,  Jazeph’s  eyes  expressed  her  thanks  in 
one  grateful  glance.  They  looked  so  much 
brighter  than  usual  while  they  rested  on  her 
mistress’s  face  that  Mrs.  Nor  bury  half  doubted 
whether  the  tears  were  not  just  rising  in  them 
at  that  moment.  Before  she  could  look  again, 
Mrs.  Jazeph  had  courtesied  to  the  doctor  and 
had  noiselessly  left  the  room. 

“Now  we  are  alone,  Mr.  Orridge,”  said  Mrs, 
Norbury,  “1  may  tell  you,  with  all  submission 
to  your  medical  judgment,  that  you  are  a little 
exaggerating  Mrs.  Jazeph’s  nervous  infirmities. 
She  looks  poorly  enough,  I own;  but,  after  fi\re 
years’  experience  of  her,  I can  tell  you  that  she 
is  stronger  than  she  looks,  and  I honestly  think 
you  will  be  doing  good  service  to  Mrs  Frank- 
land  if  you  try  our  volunteer  nurse,  at  least  for 
a day  or  two.  She  is  the  gentlest,  tenderest 
creature  I ever  met  with,  and  conscientious  to 
a fault  in  the  performance  of  any  duty  that  she 
undertakes.  Don’t  be  under  any  delicacy  about 
taking  her  away.  I gave  a dinner-party  last 
week,  and  shall  not  give  another  for  some  time 
to  come.  I never  could  have  spared  my  house- 
keeper more  easily  than  I can  spare  her  now.” 
“I  am  sure  I may  offer  Mrs.  Frankland’s 
thanks  to  you  as  well  as  my  own,”  said  Mr. 
Or  ridge.  “After  what  you  have  said,  it  would 
be  ungracious  and  ungrateful  in  me  not  to  follow 
your  advice.  But  will  you  excuse  me  if  I ask 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


155 


one  question?  Did  you  ever  hear  that  Mrs. 
Jazeph  was  subject  to  fits  of  any  kind?” 

“Never.” 

“Not  even  to  hysterical  affections,  now  and 
then?” 

“Never,  since  she  has  been  in  this  house.” 

“You  surprise  me,  there  is  something  in  her 
look  and  manner—” 

“Yes,  yes;  everybody  remarks  that  at  first; 
but  it  simply  means  that  she  is  in  delicate  health, 
and  that  she  has  not  led  a very  happy  life  (as  I 
suspect)  in  her  younger  days.  The  lady  from 
whom  I had  her  (with  an  excellent  character) 
told  me  that  she  had  married  unhappily,  when 
she  was  in  a sadly  poor,  unprotected  state.  She 
never  says  anything  about  her  married  troubles 
herself;  but  I believe  her  husband  ill-used  her. 
However,  it  does  not  seem  to  me  that  this  is  our 
business.  I can  only  tell  you  again  that  she  has 
been  an  excellent  servant  here  for  the  last  five 
years,  and  that,  in  your  place,  poorly  as  she  may 
look,  I should  consider  her  as  the  best  nurse  that 
Mrs.  Frankland  could  possibly  wish  for,  under 
the  circumstances.  There  is  no  need  for  me  to 
say  any  more.  Take  Mrs.  Jazeph,  or  telegraph 
to  London  for  a stranger — the  decision  of  course 
rests  with  you.” 

Mr.  Orridge  thought  he  detected  a slight  tone 
of  irritability  in  Mrs.  Norbury’s  last  sentence. 
He  was  a prudent  man;  and  he  suppressed  any 
doubts  he  might  still  feel  in  reference  to  Mrs. 
Jazeph’s  physical  capacities  for  nursing,  rather 
than  risk  offending  the  most  important  lady  in 


150 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


the  neighborhood  at  the  outset  of  his  practice 
in  West  Winston  as  a medical  man. 

“I  cannot  hesitate  a moment  after  what  you 
have  been  good  enough  to  tell  me,”  he  said. 
“Pray  believe  that  I gratefully  accept  your  kind- 
ness and  your  housekeeper’s  offer.” 

Mrs.  Norbury  rang  the  bell.  It  was  answered 
on  the  instant  by  the  housekeeper  herself. 

The  doctor  wondered  whether  she  had  been 
listening  outside  the  door,  and  thought  it  rather 
strange,  if  she  had,  that  she  should  be  so  anxious 
to  learn  his  decision. 

“Mr.  Orridge  accepts  your  offer  with  thanks,” 
said  Mrs.  Norbury,  beckoning  to  Mrs.  Jazeph 
to  advance  into  the  room.  “I  have  persuaded 
him  that  you  are  not  quite  so  weak  and  ill  as 
you  look.” 

A gleam  of  joyful  surprise  broke  over  the 
housekeeper’s  face.  It  looked  suddenly  younger 
by  years  and  years,  as  she  smiled  and  expressed 
her  grateful  sense  of  the  trust  that  was  about  to 
be  reposed  in  her.  For  the  first  time,  also,  since 
the  doctor  had  seen  her,  she  ventured  on  speak- 
ing before  she  was  spoken  to. 

“When  will  my  attendance  be  required,  sir?” 
she  asked. 

“As  soon  as  possible,”  replied  Mr.  Orridge. 
How  quickly  and  brightly  her  dim  eyes  seemed 
to  clear  as  she  heard  that  answer!  How  much 
more  hasty  than  her  usual  movements  was  the 
movement  with  which  she  now  turned  round  and 
looked  appealingly  at  her  mistress ! 

“Go  whenever  Mr.  Orridge  wants  you,”  said 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


157 


Mrs.  Norbury.  “I  know  your  accounts  are  al- 
ways in  order,  and  your  keys  always  in  their 
proper  places.  You  never  make  confusion,  and 
you  never  leave  confusion.  Go,  by  all  means, 
as  soon  as  the  doctor  wants  you.” 

“I  suppose  you  have  some  preparations  to 
make?”  said  Mr.  Orridge. 

“None,  sir,  that  need  delay  me  more  than  half 
an  hour,”  answered  Mrs.  Jazeph. 

“This  evening  will  be  early  enough,”  said 
the  doctor,  taking  his  hat,  and  bowing  to  Mrs. 
Norbury.  “Come  to  the  Tiger’s  Head  and  ask 
for  me.  I shall  be  there  between  seven  and 
eight.  Many  thanks  again,  Mrs.  Norbury.” 
“My  best  wishes  and  compliments  to  your 
patient,  doctor.” 

“At  the  Tiger’s  Head,  between  seven  and 
eight  this  evening,”  reiterated  Mr.  Orridge,  as 
the  housekeeper  opened  the  door  for  him. 

“Between  seven  and  eight,  sir,”  repeated  the 
soft,  sweet  voice,  sounding  younger  than  ever, 
now  that  there  was  an  under-note  of  pleasure 
running  through  its  tones. 


CHAPTER  IY. 

THE  NEW  NURSE. 

As  the  clock  struck  seven,  Mr.  Orridge  put  on 
his  hat  to  go  to  the  Tiger’s  Head.  He  had  just 
opened  his  own  door,  when  he  was  met  on  the 
step  by  a messenger,  who  summoned  him  imme- 


158 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


diately  to  a case  of  sudden  illness  in  the  poor 
quarter  of  the  town.  The  inquiries  he  made 
satisfied  him  that  the  appeal  was  really  of  an 
urgent  nature,  and  that  there  was  no  help  for  it 
but  to  delay  his  attendance  for  a little  while  at 
the  inn.  On  reaching  the  bedside  of  the  patient, 
he  discovered  symptoms  in  the  case  which  ren- 
dered an  immediate  operation  necessary.  The 
performance  of  this  professional  duty  occupied 
some  time.  It  was  a quarter  to  eight  before  he 
left  his  house,  for  the  second  time,  on  his  way  to 
the  Tiger’s  H,ead. 

On  entering  the  inn  door,  he  was  informed 
that  the  new  nurse  had  arrived  as  early  as  seven 
o’clock,  and  had  been  waiting  for  him  in  a room 
by  herself  ever  since.  Having  received  no  orders 
from  Mr.  Orridge,  the  landlady  had  thought  it 
safest  not  to  introduce  the  stranger  to  Mrs.  Frank- 
land  before  the  doctor  came. 

4 'Did  she  ask  to  go  up  into  Mrs.  Frankland’s 
room?”  inquired  Mr.  Orridge. 

“Yes,  sir,”  replied  the  landlady.  “And  I 
thought  she  seemed  rather  put  out  when  I said 
that  I must  beg  her  to  wait  till  you  got  here. 
Will  you  step  this  way,  and  see  her  at  once,  sir? 
She  is  in  my  parlor.” 

Mr.  Orridge  followed  the  landlady  into  a little 
room  at  the  back  of  the  house,  and  found  Mrs. 
Jazeph  sitting  alone  in  the  corner  furthest  from 
the  window.  He  was  rather  surprised  to  see 
that  she  drew  her  veil  down  the  moment  the 
door  was  opened. 

“I  am  sorry  you  should  have  been  kept  wait- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


159 


ing,”  he  said;  “but  I was  called  away  to  a pa- 
tient. Besides,  I told  you  between  seven  and 
eight,  if  you  remember;  and  it  is  not  eight 
o’clock  yet.” 

“I  was  very  anxious  to  be  in  good  time,  sir,” 
said  Mrs.  Jazeph. 

There  was  an  accent  of  restraint  in  the  quiet 
tones  in  which  she  spoke  which  struck  Mr.  Or- 
ridge’s  ear,  and  a little  perplexed  him.  She 
was,  apparently,  not  only  afraid  that  her  face 
might  betray  something,  but  apprehensive  also 
that  her  voice  might  tell  him  more  than  her 
words  expressed.  What  feeling  was  she  anxious 
to  conceal?  Was  it  irritation  at  having  been 
kept  waiting  so  long  by  herself  in  the  landlady’s 
room? 

“If  you  will  follow  me,”  said  Mr.  Orridge,  “I 
will  take  you  to  Mrs.  Frankland  immediately.” 

Mrs.  Jazeph  rose  slowly,  and,  when  she  was 
on  her  feet,  rested  her  hand  for  an  instant  on  a 
table  near  her.  That  action,  momentary  as  it 
was,  helped  to  confirm  the  doctor  in  his  convic- 
tion of  her  physical  unfitness  for  the  position 
which  she  had  volunteered  to  occupy. 

“You  seem  tired,”  he  said,  as  he  led  the  way 
out  of  the  door.  “Surely,  you  did  not  walk  all 
the  way  here?” 

“No,  sir.  My  mistress  was  so  kind  as  to  let 
one  of  the  servants  drive  me  in  the  pony-chaise.” 
There  was  the  same  restraint  in  her  voice  as  she 
made  that  answer;  and  still  she  never  attempted 
to  lift  her  veil.  While  ascending  the  inn  stairs 
Mr.  Orridge  mentally  resolved  to  watch  her  first 


160 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


proceedings  in  Mrs.  Frankland’s  room  closely, 
and  to  send,  after  all,  for  the  London  nurse  un- 
less Mrs.  Jazeph  showed  remarkable  aptitude  in 
the  performance  of  her  new  duties. 

The  room  which  Mrs.  Frankland  occupied  was 
situated  at  the  back  of  the  house,  having  been 
chosen  in  that  position  with  the  object  of  remov- 
ing her  as  much  as  possible  from  the  bustle  and 
noise  about  the  inn  door.  It  was  lighted  by  one 
window  overlooking  a few  cottages,  beyond  which 
spread  the  rich  grazing  grounds  of  West  Somer- 
setshire, bounded  by  a long  monotonous  line  of 
thickly  wooded  hills.  The  bed  was  of  the  old- 
fashioned  kind,  with  the  customary  four  posts 
and  the  inevitable  damask  curtains.  Ifc  projected 
from  the  wall  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  in 
such  a situation  as  to  keep  the  door  on  the  right 
hand  of  the  person  occupying  it,  the  window  on 
the  left,  and  the  fireplace  opposite  the  foot  of  the 
bed.  On  the  side  of  the  bed  nearest  the  window 
the  curtains  were  open,  while  at  the  foot,  and  on 
the  side  near  the  door,  they  were  closely  drawn. 
By  this  arrangement  the  interior  of  the  bed  was 
necessarily  concealed  from  the  view  of  any  per- 
son on  first  entering  the  room. 

“How  do  you  find  yourself  to-night,  Mrs. 
Frankland?”  asked  Mr.  Orridge,  reaching  out 
his  hand  to  undraw  the  curtains.  “Do  you 
think  you  will  he  any  the  worse  for  a little  freer 
circulation  of  air?” 

“On  the  contrary,  doctor,  I shall  be  all  the 
better,”  was  the  answer.  “But  I am  afraid — 
in  case  you  have  ever  been  disposed  to  consider 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


161 

me  a sensible  woman — that  my  character  will 
suffer  a little  in  your  estimation  when  you  see 
how  I have  been  occupying  myself  for  the  last 
hour.” 

Mr.  Orridge  smiled  as  he  undrew  the  curtains, 
and  laughed  outright  when  he  looked  at  the 
mother  and  child. 

Mrs.  Frankland  had  been  amusing  herself, 
and  gratifying  her  taste  for  bright  colors,  by 
dressing  out  her  baby  with  blue  ribbons  as  he 
lay  asleep.  He  had  a necklace,  shoulder-knots, 
and  bracelets,  all  of  blue  ribbon;  and,  to  com- 
plete the  quaint  finery  of  his  costume,  his  mother’s 
smart  little  lace  cap  had  been  hitched  comically 
on  one  side  of  his  head.  Rosamond  herself,  as 
if  determined  to  vie  with  the  baby  in  gayety  of 
dress,  wore  a light  pink  jacket,  ornamented 
down  the  bosom  and  over  the  sleeves  with  bows 
of  white  satin  ribbon.  Laburnum  blossoms, 
gathered  that  morning,  lay  scattered  about  over 
the  white  counterpane,  intermixed  with  some 
flowers  of  the  lily  of  the  valley,  tied  up  into 
two  nosegays  with  strips  of  cherry-colored  rib- 
bon. Over  this  varied  assemblage  of  colors,  over 
the  baby’s  smoothly  rounded  cheeks  and  arms, 
over  his  mother’s  happy,  youthful  face,  the  ten- 
der light  of  the  May  evening  poured  tranquil 
and  warm.  Thoroughly  appreciating  the  charm 
of  the  picture  which  he  had  disclosed  on  undraw- 
ing the  curtains,  the  doctor  stood  looking  at  it 
for  a few  moments,  quite  forgetful  of  the  errand 
that  had  brought  him  into  the  room.  He  was 
only  recalled  to  a remembrance  of  the  new  nurse 
F— Vol  16 


162 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


by  a chance  question  which  Mrs.  Frankland  ad- 
dressed to  him. 

“J  can’t  help  it,  doctor,”  said  Rosamond,  with 
a look  of  apology.  “ I really  can’t  help  treating 
my  baby,  now  I am  a grown  woman,  just  as  I 
used  to  treat  my  doll  when  I was  a little  girl. 
Did  anybody  come  into  the  room  with  you? 
Lenny,  are  you  there?  Have  you  done  dinner, 
darling,  and  did  you  drink  my  health  when  you 
were  left  at  dessert  all  by  yourself?” 

“Mr.  Frankland  is  still  at  dinner,”  said  the 
doctor.  “But  I certainly  brought  some  one  into 
the  room  with  me.  Where,  in  the  name  of  won- 
der, has  she  gone  to? — Mrs.  Jazeph!” 

The  housekeeper  had  slipped  round  to  the  part 
of  the  room  between  the  foot  of  the  bed  and  the 
fireplace,  where  she  was  hidden  by  the  curtains 
that  still  remained  drawn.  When  Mr.  Orridge 
called  to  her,  instead  of  joining  him  where  he 
stood,  opposite  the  window,  she  appeared  at  the 
other  side  of  the  bed,  where  the  window  was 
behind  her.  Her  shadow  stole  darkly  oyer  the 
bright  picture  which  the  doctor  had  been  admir- 
ing. It  stretched  obliquely  across  the  counter- 
pane, and  its  dusky  edges  touched  the  figures  of 
the  mother  and  child. 

“Gracious  goodness!  who  are  you?”  exclaimed 
Rosamond.  “A  woman  or  a ghost?” 

Mrs.  Jazeph’s  veil  was  up  at  last.  Although 
her  face  was  necessarily  in  shadow  in  the  posi- 
tion which  she  had  chosen  to  occupy,  the  doctor 
saw  a change  pass  over  it  when  Mrs.  Frankland 
spoke.  The  lips  dropped  and  quivered  a little; 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


163 


the  marks  of  care  and  age  about  the  mouth 
deepened;  and  the  eyebrows  contracted  sud- 
denly, The  eyes  Mr.  Orridge  could  not  see;  they 
were  cast  down  on  the  counterpane  at  the  first 
word  that  Rosamond  uttered.  Judging  by  the 
light  of  his  medical  experience,  the  doctor  con- 
cluded that  she  was  suffering  pain,  and  trying 
to  suppress  any  outward  manifestation  of  it. 
“An  affection  of  the  heart,  most  likely,”  he 
thought  to  himself.  “She  has  concealed  it  from 
her  mistress,  but  she  can’t  hide  it  from  me.” 
“Who  are  you?”  repeated  Rosamond.  “And 
what  in  the  world  do  you  stand  there  for — be- 
tween us  and  the  sunlight?” 

Mrs.  Jazeph  neither  answered  nor  raised  her 
eyes.  She  only  moved  back  timidly  to  the  fur- 
thest corner  of  the  window. 

“Did  you  not  get  a message  from  me  this 
afternoon?”  asked  the  doctor,  appealing  to  Mrs. 
Frankland. 

“To  be  sure  I did,”  replied  Rosamond.  “A 
very  kind,  flattering  message  about  a new  nurse.  ” 
“There  she  is,”  said  Mr.  Orridge,  pointing 
across  the  bed  to  Mrs.  Jazeph. 

“You  don’t  say  so!”  exclaimed  Rosamond. 
“But  of  course  it  must  be.  Who  else  could  have 
come  in  with  you?  I ought  to  have  known  that. 
Pray  come  here — (what  is  her  name,  doctor? 
Joseph,  did  you  say?  — No?  — Jazeph?) — pray 
come  nearer,  Mrs.  Jazeph,  and  let  me  apologize 
for  speaking  so  abruptly  to  you.  I am  more 
obliged  than  I can  say  for  your  kindness  in  com- 
ing here,  and  for  your  mistress’s  good-nature  in 


164 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLTNS. 


resigning  you  to  me.  I hope  I shall  not  give  you 
much  trouble,  and  I am  sure  you  will  find  the 
baby  easy  to  manage.  He  is  a perfect  angel, 
and  sleeps  like  a dormouse.  Dear  me!  now  1 
look  at  you  a little  closer,  I am  afraid  you  are 
in  very  delicate  health  yourself.  Doctor,  if  Mrs. 
Jazeph  would  not  be  offended  with  me,  I should 
almost  feel  inclined  to  say  that  she  looks  in  want 
of  nursing  herself.” 

Mrs.  Jazeph  bent  down  over  the  laburnum 
blossoms  on  the  bed,  and  began  hurriedly  and 
confusedly  to  gather  them  together. 

“I  thought  as  you  do,  Mrs.  Frankland,”  said 
Mr.  Orridge.  “But  I have  been  assured  that 
Mrs.  Jazeph’s  looks  belie  her,  and  that  her  ca- 
pabilities as  a nurse  quite  equal  her  zeal.” 

“Are  you  going  to  make  all  that  laburnum 
into  a nosegay?”  asked  Mrs.  Frankland,  notic- 
ing how  the  new  nurse  was  occupying  herself. 
“How  thoughtful  of  you!  and  how  magnificent 
it  will  be!  I am  afraid  you  will  find  the  room* 
very  untidy.  I will  ring  for  my  maid  to  set  it 
to  rights.” 

“If  you  will  allow  me  to  put  it  in  order, 
ma’am,  I shall  be  very  glad  to  begin  being  of  use 
to  you  in  that  way,”  said  Mrs.  Jazeph.  When  she 
made  the  offer  she  looked  up,  and  her  eyes  and 
Mrs.  Frankland’s  met.  Rosamond  instantly  drew 
back  on  the  pillow,  and  her  color  altered  a little. 

“How  strangely  you  look  at  me!”  she  said. 

Mrs.  Jazeph  started* at  the  words,  as  if  some- 
thing had  struck  her,  and  moved  away  suddenly 
to  the  window. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


165 


“You  are  not  offended  with  me,  I hope?”  said 
Rosamond,  noticing  the  action.  “I  have  a sad 
habit  of  saying  anything  that  comes  uppermost. 
And  I really  thought  you  looked  just  now  as  if 
you  saw  something  about  me  that  frightened  or 
grieved  you.  Pray  put  the  room  in  order,  if  you 
are  kindly  willing  to  undertake  the  trouble.  And 
never  mind  what  1 say;  you  will  soon  get  used  to 
my  ways — and  we  shall  be  as  comfortable  and 
friendly — ” 

Just  as  Mrs.  Frankland  said  the  words  “com- 
fortable and  friendly,”  the  new  nurse  left  the 
window,  and  went  back  to  the  part  of  the  room 
where  she  was  hidden  from  view,  between  the 
fireplace  and  the  closed  curtains  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed.  Rosamond  looked  round  to  express  her 
surprise  to  the  doctor,  but  he  turned  away  at  the 
same  moment  so  as  to  occupy  a position  which 
might  enable  him  to  observe  what  Mrs.  Jazeph 
was  doing  on  the  other  side  of  the  bed-curtains. 

When  he  first  caught  sight  of  her,  her  hands 
were  both  raised  to  her  face.  Before  he  could 
decide  whether  he  had  surprised  her  in  the  act  of 
clasping  them  over  her  eyes  or  not,  they  changed 
their  position,  and  were  occupied  in  removing 
her  bonnet.  After  she  had  placed  this  part  of 
her  wearing  apparel,  and  her  shawl  and  gloves, 
on  a chair  in  a corner  of  the  room,  she  went  to 
the  dressing-table,  and  began  to  arrange  the 
various  useful  and  ornamental  objects  scattered 
about  it.  She  set  them  in  order  with  remarkable 
dexterity  and  neatness,  showing  a taste  for  ar- 
rangement, and  a capacity  for  discriminating 


166 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


between  things  that  were  likely  to  be  wanted 
and  things  that  were  not,  which  impressed  Mr. 
Orridge  very  favorably.  He  particularly  noticed 
the  carefulness  with  which  she  handled  some  bot- 
tles of  physic,  reading  the  labels  on  each,  and  ar- 
ranging the  medicine  that  might  be  required  at 
night  on  one  side  of  the  table,  and  the  medicine 
that  might  be  required  in  the  day-time  on  the 
other.  When  she  left  the  dressing-table,  and  oc- 
cupied herself  in  setting  the  furniture  straight, 
and  in  folding  up  articles  of  clothing  that  had 
been  thrown  on  one  side,  not  the  slightest  move- 
ment of  her  thin,  wasted  hands  seemed  ever  to 
be  made  at  hazard  or  in  vain.  Noiselessly,  mod- 
estly, observantly,  she  moved  from  side  to  side 
of  the  room,  and  neatness  and  order  followed  her 
steps  wherever  she  went.  When  Mr.  Orridge 
resumed  his  place  at  Mrs.  Frankland’s  bedside, 
his  mind  was  at  ease  on  one  point  at. least — it 
was  perfectly  evident  that  the  new  nurse  could 
be  depended  on  to  make  no  mistakes. 

4 4 What  an  odd  woman  she  is,”  whispered 
Rosamond. 

4 4 Odd,  indeed,”  returned  Mr.  Orridge,  4 4 and 
desperately  broken  in  health,  though  she  may 
not  confess  to  it.  However,  she  is  wonderfully 
neat-handed  and  careful,  and  there  can  be  no 
harm  in  trying  her  for  one  night— that  is  to  say, 
unless  you  feel  any  objection.” 

4 4 On  the  contrary,”  said  Rosamond,  44she 
rather  interests  me.  There  is  something  in  her 
face  and  manner — I can’t  say  what — that  makes 
me  feel  curious  to  know  more  of  her.  I must  get 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


167 


her  to  talk,  and  try  if  I can’t  bring  out  all  her 
peculiarities.  Don’t  be  afraid  of  my  exciting 
myself,  and  don’t  stop  here  in  this  dull  room  on 
my  account.  I would  much  rather  you  went 
downstairs,  and  kept  my  husband  company  over 
his  wine.  Do  go  and  talk  to  him,  and  amuse 
him  a little — he  must  be  so  dull,  poor  fellow, 
while  I am  up  here;  and  he  likes  you,  Mr.  Or- 
ridge — he  does,  very  much.  Stop  one  moment, 
and  just  look  at  the  baby  again.  He  doesn’t 
take  a dangerous  quantity  of  sleep,  does  he? 
And,  Mr.  Orridge,  one  word  more:  When  you 
have  done  your  wine,  you  will  promise  to  lend 
my  husband  the  use  of  your  eyes,  and  bring  him 
upstairs  to  wish  me  good-night,  won’t  you?” 
Willingly  engaging  to  pay  attention  to  Mrs. 
Frankland’s  request,  Mr.  Orridge  left  the  bedside 
As  he  opened  the  room  door,  he  stopped  to  tell 
Mrs.  Jazeph  that  he  should  be  downstairs  if  she 
wanted  him,  and  that  he  would  give  her  any  in- 
structions of  which  she  might  stand  in  need  later 
in  the  evening,  before  he  left  the  inn  for  the 
night.  The  new  nurse,  when  he  passed  by  her, 
was  kneeling  over  one  of  Mrs.  Frankland’s  open 
trunks,  arranging  some  articles  of  clothing  which 
had  been  rather  carelessly  folded  up.  Just  be- 
fore he  spoke  to  her,  he  observed  that  she  had  a 
chemisette  in  her  hand,  the  frill  of  which  was 
laced  through  with  ribbon. 

One  end  of  this  ribbon  she  appeared  to  him  to 
be  on  the  point  of  drawing  out,  when  the  sound  of 
his  footsteps  disturbed  her.  The  moment  she  be- 
came aware  of  his  approach  she  dropped  the 


168 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


chemisette  suddenly  in  the  trunk,  and  covered 
it  over  with  some  handkerchiefs.  Although  this 
proceeding  on  Mrs.  Jazeph’s  part  rather  surprised 
the  doctor,  he  abstained  from  showing  that  he 
had  noticed  it.  Her  mistress  had  vouched  for 
her  character,  after  five  years’  experience  of  it, 
and  the  bit  of  ribbon  was  intrinsically  worthless. 
On  both  accounts,  it  was  impossible  to  suspect 
her  of  attempting  to  steal  it;  and  yet,  as  Mr. 
Orridge  could  not  help  feeling  when  he  had  left 
the  room,  her  conduct,  when  he  surprised  her 
over  the  trunk,  was  exactly  the  conduct  of  a per- 
son who  is  about  to  commit  a theft. 

4 ‘Pray  don’t  trouble  yourself  about  my  lug- 
gage,” said  Rosamond,  remarking  Mrs.  Jazeph’s 
occupation  as  soon  as  the  doctor  had  gone. 
“That  is  my  idle  maid’s  business,  and  you  will 
only  make  her  more  careless  than  ever  if  you  do 
it  for  her.  1 am  sure  the  room  is  beautifully  set 
in  order.  Come  here  and  sit  down  and  rest  your- 
self. You  must  be  a very  unselfish,  kind-hearted 
woman  to  give  yourself  all  this  trouble  to  serve 
a stranger.  The  doctor’s  message  this  afternoon 
told  me  that  your  mistress  was  a friend  of  my 
poor,  dear  father’s.  I suppose  she  must  have 
known  him  before  my  time.  Any  way,  I feel 
doubly  grateful  to  her  for  taking  an  interest  in 
me  for  my  father’s  sake.  But  you  can  have  no 
such  feeling;  you  must  have  come  here  from 
pure  good-nature  and  anxiety  to  help  others. 
Don’t  go  away,  there,  to  the  window.  Come 
and  sit  down  by  me.” 

Mrs.  Jazeph  had  risen  from  the  trunk,  and 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


169 


was  approaching  the  bedside — when  she  suddenly 
turned  away  in  the  direction  of  the  fire-place, 
just  as  Mrs.  Frankland  began  to  speak  of  her 
father. 

“Come  and  sit  here,”  reiterated  Rosamond, 
getting  impatient  at  receiving  no  answer. 
“What  in  the  world  are  you  doing  there  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed?” 

The  figure  of  the  new  nurse  again  interposed 
between  the  bed  and  the  fading  evening  light 
that  glimmered  through  the  window  before  there 
was  any  reply. 

“The  evening  is  closing  in,”  said  Mrs.  Jazeph, 
“and  the  window  is  not  quite  shut.  I was  think- 
ing of  making  it  fast,  and  of  drawing  down  the 
blind— if  you  had  no  objection,  ma’am?” 

“Oh,  not  yet!  not  yet!  Shut  the  window,  if 
you  please,  in  case  the  baby  should  catch  cold, 
but  don’t  draw  down  the  blind.  Let  me  get  my 
peep  at  the  view  as  L ng  as  there  is  any  light  left 
to  see  it  by.  That  long  flat  stretch  of  grazing- 
ground  out  there  is  just  beginning,  at  this  dim 
time,  to  look  a little  like  my  childish  recollec- 
tions of  a Cornish  moor.  Do  you  know  anything 
about  Cornwall,  Mrs.  Jazeph?” 

“I  have  heard — ” At  those  first  three  words 
of  reply  the  nurse  stopped.  She  was  just  then 
engaged  in  shutting  the  window,  and  she  seemed 
to  find  some  difficulty  in  closing  the  lock. 

“What  have  you  heard?”  asked  Rosamond. 

“I  have  heard  that  Cornwall  is  a wild,  dreary 
country,”  said  Mrs.  Jazeph,  still  busying  herself 
with  the  lock  of  the  window,  and,  by  conse- 


170 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


quence,  still  keeping  her  back  turned  to  Mrs. 
Frankland. 

“ Can’t  you  shut  the  window,  yet?”  said  Rosa- 
mond. 4 ‘My  maid  always  does  it  quite  easily. 
Leave  it  till  she  comes  up— I am  going  to  ring 
for  her  directly.  I want  her  to  brush  my  hair 
and  cool  my  face  with  a little  Eau  de  Cologne 
and  water.” 

“I  have  shut  it,  ma’am,”  said  Mrs  Jazeph, 
suddenly  succeeding  in  closing  the  lock.  “And 
if  you  will  allow  me,  I should  be  very  glad  to 
make  you  comfortable  for  the  night,  and  save 
you  the  trouble  of  ringing  for  the  maid.” 

. Thinking  the  new  nurse  the  oddest  woman  she 
had  ever  met  with,  Mrs.  Frankland  accepted  the 
offer.  By  the  time  Mrs.  Jazeph  had  prepared 
the  Eau  de  Cologne  and  water,  the  twilight  was 
falling  softly  over  the  landscape  outside,  and  the 
room  was  beginning  to  grow  dark. 

“Had  you  not  better  light  a candle?”  sug- 
gested Rosamond. 

“I  think  not,  ma’am,”  said  Mrs.  Jazeph,  rather 
hastily.  “I  can  see  quite  well  without.” 

She  began  to  brush  Mrs.  Frankland’s  hair  as 
she  spoke;  and,  at  the  same  time,  asked  a ques- 
tion which  referred  to  the  few  words  that  had 
passed  between  them  on  the  subject  of  Cornwall. 
Pleased  to  find  that  the  new  nurse  had  grown 
familiar  enough  at  last  to  speak  before  she  was 
spoken  to,  Rosamond  desired  nothing  better  than 
to  talk  about  her  recollections  of  her  native  coun- 
try. But,  from  some  inexplicable  reason,  Mrs. 
Jazeph’s  touch,  light  and  tender  as  it  was,  had 


THE  DEAD  SECRET.  171 

such  a strangely  disconcerting  effect  on  her,  that 
she  could  not  succeed,  for  the  moment,  in  collect- 
ing her  thoughts  so  as  to  reply,  except  in  the 
briefest  manner.  The  careful  hands  of  the  nurse 
lingered  with  a stealthy  gentleness  among  the 
locks  of  her  hair ; the  pale,  wasted  face  of  the 
new  nurse  approached,  every  now  and  then, 
more  closely  to  her  own  than  appeared  at  all 
needful.  A vague  sensation  of  uneasiness, 
which  she  could  not  trace  to  any  particular  part 
of  her — which  she  could  hardly  say  that  she  really 
felt,  in  a bodily  sense,  at  all— seemed  to  be  float- 
ing about  her,  to  be  hanging  around  and  over 
her,  like  the  air  she  breathed.  She  could  not 
move,  though  she  wanted  to  move  in  the  bed; 
she  could  not  turn  her  head  so  as  to  humor  the 
action  of  the  brush;  she  could  not  look  round; 
she  could  not  break  the  embarrassing  silence 
which  had  been  caused  by  her  own  short,  dis- 
couraging answer.  At  last  the  sense  of  oppres- 
sion— whether  fancied  or  real — irritated  her  into 
snatching  the  brush  out  of  Mrs.  Jazeph’s  hand. 
The  instant  she  had  done  so,  she  felt  ashamed  of 
the  discourteous  abruptness  of  the  action,  and 
confused  at  the  alarm  and  surprise  which  the 
manner  of  the  nurse  exhibited.  With  the  strong- 
est sense  of  the  absurdity  of  her  own  conduct, 
and  yet  without  the  least  power  of  controlling 
herself,  she  burst  out  laughing,  and  tossed  the 
brush  away  to  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

“Pray  don’t  look  surprised,  Mrs.  Jazeph,”  she 
said,  still  laughing  without  knowing  why,  and 
without  feeling  in  the  slightest  degree  amused. 


m 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“I’m  very  rude  and  odd,  I know.  You  have 
brushed  my  hair  delightfully;  but — I can’t  tell 
how — it  seemed,  all  the  time,  as  if  you  were  brush- 
ing the  strangest  fancies  into  my  head.  I can’t 
help  laughing  at  them — I can’t  indeed ! Do  you 
know,  once  or  twice,  I absolutely  fancied,  when 
your  face  was  closest  to  mine,  that  you  wanted 
to  kiss  me!  Did  you  ever  hear  of  anything  so 
ridiculous?  I declare  I am  more  of  a baby,  in 
some  things,  than  the  little  darling  here  by  my 
side!” 

Mrs.  Jazeph  made  no  answer.  She  left  the  bed 
while  Rosamond  was  speaking,  and  came  back, 
after  an  unaccountably  long  delay,  with  the  Eau 
de  Cologne  and  water.  As  she  held  the  basin 
while  Mrs.  Frankland  bathed  her  face,  she  kept 
away  at  arms-length,  and  came  no  nearer  when 
it  was  time  to  offer  the  towel.  Rosamond  began 
to  be  afraid  that  she  had  seriously  offended  Mrs. 
Jazeph,  and  tried  to  soothe  and  propitiate  her 
by  asking  questions  about  the  management  of 
the  baby.  There  was  a slight  trembling  in  the 
sweet  voice  of  the  new  nurse,  but  not  the  faintest 
tone  of  sullenness  or  anger,  as  she  simply  and 
quietly  answered  the  inquiries  addressed  to  her. 
By  dint  of  keeping  the  conversation  still  on  the 
subject  of  the  child,  Mrs.  Frankland  succeeded, 
little  by  little,  in  luring  her  back  to  the  bedside 
— in  tempting  her  to  bend  down  admiringly  over 
the  infant — in  emboldening  her,  at  last,  to  kiss 
him  tenderly  on  the  cheek.  One  kiss  was  all 
that  she  gave;  and  she  turned  away  from  the 
bed,  after  it,  and  sighed  heavily. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


173 


The  sound  of  that  sigh  fell  very  sadly  on 
Rosamond’s  heart.  Up  to  this  time  the  baby’s 
little  span  of  life  had  always  been  associated  with 
smiling  faces  and  pleasant  words.  It  made  her 
uneasy  to  think  that  any  one  could  caress  him 
and  sigh  after  it. 

“I  am  sure  you  must  be  fond  of  children,”  she 
said,  hesitating  a little  from  natural  delicacy  of 
feeling.  “But  will  you  excuse  me  for  noticing 
that  it  seems  rather  a mournful  fondness?  Pray 
— pray  don’t  answer  my  question  if  it  gives  you 
any  pain — if  you  have  any  loss  to  deplore;  but — 
but  I do  so  want  to  ask  if  you  have  ever  had  a 
child  of  your  own?” 

Mrs.  Jazephwas  standing  near  a chair  wheq 
that  question  was  put.  She  caught  fast  hold  of 
the  back  of  it,  grasping  it  so  firmly,  or  perhaps 
leaning  on  it  so  heavily,  that  the  woodwork 
cracked.  Her  head  dropped  low  on  her  bosom. 
She  did  not  utter,  or  even  attempt  to  utter,  a 
single  word. 

Fearing  that  she  must  have  lost  a child  of  her 
own,  and  dreading  to  distress  her  unnecessarily 
by  venturing  to  ask  any  more  questions,  Rosa- 
mond said  nothing,  as  she  stooped  over  the  baby 
to  kiss  him  in  her  turn.  Her  lips  rested  on  his 
cheek  a little  above  where  Mrs.  Jazeph’s  lips  had 
rested  the  moment  before,  and  they  touched  a 
spot  of  wet  on  his  smooth  warm  skin.  Fearing 
that  some  of  the  water  in  which  she  had  been 
bathing  her  face  might  have  dropped  on  him, 
she  passed  her  fingers  lightly  over  his  head,  neck, 
and  bosom,  and  felt  no  other  spots  of  wet  any- 


1?4  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

where.  The  one  drop  that  had  fallen  on  him 
was  the  drop  that  wetted  the  cheek  which  the 
new  nurse  had  kissed. 

The  twilight  faded  over  the  landscape,  the 
room  grew  darker  and  darker;  and  still,  though 
she  was  now  sitting  close  to  the  table  on  which 
the  candles  and  matches  were  placed,  Mrs.  Ja- 
zeph  made  no  attempt  to  strike  a light.  Rosa- 
mond did  not  feel  quite  comfortable  at  the  idea 
of  lying  awake  in  the  darkness,  with  nobody  in 
the  room  but  a person  who  was  as  yet  almost  a 
total  stranger ; and  she  resolved  to  have  the  can- 
dles lighted  immediately. 

“Mrs.  Jazeph,”  she  said,  looking  toward  the 
gathering  obscurity  outside  the  window,  “I  shall 
be  much  obliged  to  you,  if  you  will  light  the 
candles  and  pull  down  the  blind.  I can  trace  no 
more  resemblances  out  there,  now,  to  a Cornish 
prospect;  the  view  has  gone  altogether.” 

“Are  you  very  fond  of  Cornwall,  ma’am?” 
asked  Mrs.  Jazeph,  rising,  in  rather  a dilatory 
manner,  to  light  the  candles. 

“Indeed  I am,”  said  Rosamond.  “I  was  born 
there;  and  my  husband  and  I were  on  our  way 
to  Cornwall  when  we  were  obliged  to  stop,  on 
my  account,  at  this  place.  You  are  a long  time 
getting  the  candles  lighted.  Can’t  you  find  the 
match-box?” 

Mrs.  Jazeph,  with  an  awkwardness  which  was 
rather  surprising  in  a person  who  had  shown  so 
much  neat-handedness  in  setting  the  room  to 
rights,  broke  the  first  match  in  attempting  to 
light  it,  and  let  the  second  go  out  the  instant 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


175 


after  the  flame  was  kindled.  At  the  third  at- 
tempt she  was  more  successful ; but  she  only  lit 
one  candle,  and  that  one  she  carried  away  from 
the  table  which  Mrs.  Frankland  could  see,  to  the 
dressing-table,  which  was  hidden  from  her  by 
the  curtains  at  the  foot  of  the  bed. 

“Why  do  you  move  the  candle?”  asked  Rosa- 
mond. 

“I  thought  it  was  best  for  your  eyes,  ma’am, 
not  to  have  the  light  too  near  them,”  replied 
Mrs.  Jazeph;  and  then  added  hastily,  as  if  she 
was  unwilling  to  give  Mrs.  Frankland  time  to 
make  any  objections — “And  so  you  were  going 
to  Cornwall,  ma’am,  when  you  stopped  at  this 
place?  To  travel  about  there  a little,  I sup- 
pose?” After  saying  these  words,  she  took  up 
the  second  candle,  and  passed  out  of  sight  as  she 
carried  it  to  the  dressing-table. 

Rosamond  thought  that  the  nurse,  in  spite  of 
her  gentle  looks  and  manners,  was  a remarkably 
obstinate  woman.  But  she  was  too  good-natured 
to  care  about  asserting  her  right  to  have  the 
candles  placed  where  she  pleased;  and  when 
she  answered  Mrs.  Jazeph’s  question,  she  still 
spoke  to  her  as  cheerfully  and  familiarly  as 
ever. 

“Oh,  dear  no!  Not  to  travel  about,”  she  said, 
“but  to  go  straight  to  the  old  country-house 
where  I was  born.  It  belongs  to  my  husband 
now,  Mrs.  Jazeph.  I have  not  been  near  it  since 
I was  a little  girl  of  five  years  of  age.  Such  a 
ruinous,  rambling  old  place!  You,  who  talk  of 
the  dreariness  and  wildness  of  Cornwall,  would 


176 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


/ 


be  quite  horrified  at  the  very  idea  of  living  in 
Porthgenna  Tower.” 

The  faintly  rustling  sound  of  Mrs.  Jazeph’s 
silk  dress,  as  she  moved  about  the  dressing-table, 
had  been  audible  all  the  while  Rosamond  was 
speaking.  It  ceased  instantaneously  when  she 
said  the  words  4 4 Porthgenna  Tower”;  and  for 
one  moment  there  was  a dead  silence  in  the  room. 

“You,  who  have  been  living  all  your  life,  I 
suppose,  in  nicely  repaired  houses,  cannot  imag- 
ine what  a place  it  is  that  we  are  going  to,  when 
I am  well  enough  to  travel  again,”  pursued 
Rosamond.  “What  do  you  think,  Mrs.  Jazeph, 
of  a house  with  one  whole  side  of  it  that  has 
never  been  inhabited  for  sixty  or  seventy  years 
past?  You  may  get  some  notion  of  the  size  of 
Porthgenna  Tower  from  that.  There  is  a west 
side  that  we  are  to  live  in  when  we  get  there, 
and  a north  side,  where  the  empty  old  rooms  are, 
which  I hope  we  shall  be  able  to  repair.  Only 
think  of  the  hosts  of  odd,  old-fashioned  things 
that  we  may  find  in  those  uninhabited  rooms!  I 
mean  to  put  on  the  cook’s  apron  and  the  gar- 
dener’s gloves,  and  rummage  all  over  them  from 
top  to  bottom.  How  I shall  astonish  the  house- 
keeper, when  I get  to  Porthgenna,  and  ask  her 
for  the  keys  of  the  ghostly  north  rooms!” 

A low  cry,  and  a sound  as  if  something  had 
struck  against  the  dressing-table,  followed  Mrs. 
Frankland’s  last  words.  She  started  in  the  bed 
and  asked  eagerly  what  was  the  matter. 

“Nothing,”  answered  Mrs.  Jazeph,  speaking  so 
constrainedly  that  her  voice  dropped  to  a whis- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


\77 


per.  “Nothing,  ma’am — nothing,  I assure  you. 
I struck  my  side,  by  accident,  against  the  table— 
pray  don’t  be  alarmed ! — it’s  not  worth  noticing.” 

“But  you  speak  as  if  you  were  in  pain,”  said 
Rosamond. 

“No,  no — not  in  pain.  Not  hurt — not  hurt, 
indeed.” 

While  Mrs.  Jazeph  was  declaring  that  she  was 
not  hurt,  the  door  of  the  room  was  opened,  and 
the  doctor  entered,  leading  in  Mr.  Frankland. 

“We  come  early,  Mrs.  Frankland,  but  we  are 
going  to  give  you  plenty  of  time  to  compose 
yourself  for  the  night,”  said  Mr.  Orridge.  He 
paused,  and  noticed  that  Rosamond’s  color  was 
heightened.  “I  am  afraid  you  have  been  talk- 
ing and  exciting  yourself  a little  too  much,”  he 
went  on.  “If  you  will  excuse  me  for  venturing 
on  the  suggestion,  Mr.  Frankland,  I think  the 
sooner  good-night  is  said  the  better.  Where  is 
the  nurse?” 

Mrs.  Jazeph  sat  down  with  her  back  to  the 
lighted  candle  when  she  heard  herself  asked  for. 
Just  before  that,  she  had  been  looking  at  Mr. 
Frankland  with  an  eager,  undisguised  curiosity, 
which,  if  any  one  had  noticed  it,  must  have  ap- 
peared surprisingly  out  of  character  with  her 
usual  modesty  and  refinement  of  manner. 

“I  am  afraid  the  nurse  has  accidentally  hurt 
her  side  more  than  she  is  willing  to  confess,” 
said  Rosamond  to  the  doctor,  pointing  with  one 
hand  to  the  place  in  which  Mrs.  J azeph  was  sit- 
ting, and  raising  the  other  to  her  husband’s  neck 
as  he  stooped  over  her  pillow. 


178 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Mr.  Orridge,  cn  inquiring  what  had  happened, 
could  not  prevail  on  the  new  nurse  to  acknowl- 
edge that  the  accident  was  of  the  slightest  conse- 
quence. He  suspected,  nevertheless,  that  she  was 
suffering,  or,  at  least,  that  something  had  hap- 
pened to  discompose  her;  for  he  found  the  great- 
est difficulty  in  fixing  her  attention,  while  he 
gave  her  a few  needful  directions  in  case  her 
services  were  required  during  the  night.  All  the 
time  he  was  speaking,  her  eyes  wandered  away 
from  him  to  the  part  of  the  room  where  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Frankland  were  talking  together.  Mrs. 
Jazeph  looked  like  the  last  person  in  the  world 
who  would  be  guilty  of  an  act  of  impertinent 
curiosity;  and  yet  she  openly  betrayed  all  the 
characteristics  of  an  inquisitive  woman  while 
Mr.  Frankland  was  standing  by  his  wife’s  pil- 
low. The  doctor  was  obliged  to  assume  his  most 
peremptory  manner  before  he  could  get  her  to 
attend  to  him  at  all. 

“And  now,  Mrs.  Frankland,”  said  Mr.  Or- 
ridge,  turning  away  from  the  nurse,  “as  I have 
given  Mrs.  Jazeph  all  the  directions  she  wants,  I 
shall  set  the  example  of  leaving  you  in  quiet  by 
saying  good-night.” 

Understanding  the  hint  conveyed  in  these 
words,  Mr.  Frankland  attempted  to  say  good- 
night too,  but  his  wife  kept  tight  hold  of  both 
his  hands,  and  declared  that  it  was  unreasonable 
to  expect  her  to  let  him  go  for  another  half-hour 
at  least.  Mr.  Orridge  shook  his  head,  and  began 
to  expatiate  on  the  evils  of  over-excitement,  and 
the  blessings  of  composure  and  sleep.  His  re- 


THE  BEAD  SECRET. 


179 


monstrances,  however,  would  have  produced 
very  little  effect,  even  if  Rosamond  had  allowed 
him  to  continue  them,  but  for  the  interposition 
of  the  baby,  who  happened  to  wake  up  at  that 
moment,  and  who  proved  himself  a powerful  aux- 
iliary on  the  doctor’s  side,  by  absorbing  all  his 
mother’s  attention  immediately.  Seizing  his 
opportunity  at  the  right  moment,  Mr.  Orridge 
quietly  led  Mr.  Frankland  out  of  the  room,  just 
as  Rosamond  was  taking  the  child  up  in  her 
arms.  He  stopped  before  closing  the  door  to 
whisper  one  last  word  to  Mrs.  Jazeph. 

“If  Mrs.  Frankland  wants  to  talk,  you  must 
not  encourage  her,”  he  said.  “As  soon  as  she 
has  quieted  the  baby,  she  ought  to  go  to  sleep. 
There  is  a chair- bedstead  in  that  corner,  which 
you  can  open  for  yourself  when  you  want  to  lie 
down.  Keep  the  candle  where  it  is  now,  behind 
the  curtain.  The  less  light  Mrs.  Frankland  sees, 
the  sooner  she  will  compose  herself  to  sleep.” 
Mrs.  Jazeph  made  no  answer;  she  only  looked 
at  the  doctor  and  courtesied.  That  strangely 
scared  expression  in  her  eyes,  which  he  had 
noticed  on  first  seeing  her,  was  more  painfully 
apparent  than  ever  when  he  left  her  alone  for 
the  night  with  the  mother  and  child.  “She  will 
never  do,”  thought  Mr.  Orridge,  as  he  led  Mr. 
Frankland  down  the  inn  stairs.  “ We  shall  have 
to  send  to  London  for  a nurse,  after  all.” 

Feeling  a little  irritated  by  the  summary  man- 
ner in  which  her  husband  had  been  taken  away 
from  her,  Rosamond  fretfully  rejected  the  offers 
of  assistance  which  were  made  to  her  by  Mrs. 


180 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Jazeph  as  soon  as  the  doctor  had  left  the  room. 
The  nurse  said  nothing  when  her  services  were 
declined;  and  yet,  judging  by  her  conduct,  she 
seemed  anxious  to  speak.  Twice  she  advanced 
toward  the  bedside — opened  her  lips — stopped— 
and  retired  confusedly,  before  she  settled  herself 
finally  in  her  former  place  by  the  dressing-table. 
Here  she  remained,  silent  and  out  of  sight,  until 
the  child  had  been  quieted,  and  had  fallen  asleep 
in  his  mother’s  arms,  with  one  little  pink,  half- 
closed  hand  resting  on  her  bosom.  Rosamond 
could  not  resist  raising  the  hand  to  her  lips, 
though  she  risked  waking  him  again  by  doing 
so.  As  she  kissed  it,  the  sound  of  the  kiss  was 
followed  by  a faint,  suppressed  sob,  proceeding 
from  the  other  side  of  the  curtains  at  the  lower 
end  of  the  bed. 

“ What  is  that?”  she  exclaimed. 

“Nothing,  ma’am,”  said  Mrs,  Jazeph,  in  the 
same  constrained,  whispering  tones  in  which 
she  had  answered  Mrs.  Frankland’s  former 
question.  “I  think  I was  just  falling  asleep 
in  the  arm-chair  here;  and  I ought  to  have  told 
you  perhaps  that,  having  had  my  troubles,  and 
being  afflicted  with  a heart  complaint,  I have  a 
habit  of  sighing  in  my  sleep.  It  means  nothing, 
ma’am,  and  I hope  you  will  be  good  enough  to 
excuse  it.” 

Rosamond’s  generous  instincts  were  aroused 
in  a moment. 

“Excuse  it!”  she  said.  “I  hope  I may  do 
better  than  that,  Mrs.  Jazeph,  and  be  the  means 
of  relieving  it.  When  Mr.  Orridge  comes  to- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


181 


morrow  you  shall  consult  him,  and  I will  take 
care  that  you  want  for  nothing  that  he  may 
order.  No!  no!  Don’t  thank  me  until  I have 
been  the  means  of  making  you  well — and  keep 
where  you  are,  if  the  arm-chair  is  comfortable. 
The  baby  is  asleep  again;  and  I should  like  to 
have  half  an  hour’s  quiet  before  I change  to  the 
night  side  of  the  bed,  Stop  where  you  are  for 
the  present:  I will  call  as  soon  as  I want 
you.” 

So  far  from  exercising  a soothing  effect  on  Mrs. 
Jazeph,  these  kindly  meant  words  produced  the 
precisely  opposite  result  of  making  her  restless. 
She  began  to  walk  about  the  room,  and  confus- 
edly attempted  to  account  for  the  change  in  her 
conduct  by  saying  that  she  wished  to  satisfy  herself 
that  all  her  arrangements  were  properly  made  for 
the  night.  In  a few  minutes  more  she  began,  in 
defiance  of  the  doctor’s  prohibition,  to  tempt 
Mrs.  Frankland  into  talking  again,  by  asking 
questions  about  Porthgenna  Tower,  and  by  re- 
ferring to  the  chances  for  and  against  its  being 
chosen  as  a permanent  residence  by  the  young 
married  couple. 

“Perhaps,  ma’am,”  she  said,  speaking  on  a 
sudden,  with  an  eagerness  in  her  voice  which 
was  curiously  at  variance  with  the  apparent  in- 
difference of  her  manner — “Perhaps  when  you 
see  Porthgenna  Tower  you  may  not  like  it  so 
well  as  you  think  you  will  now.  Who  can  tell 
that  you  may  not  get  tired  and  leave  the  place 
again  after  a few  days — especially  if  you  go  into 
the  empty  rooms?  I should  have  thought — if 


182 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


you  will  excuse  my  saying  so,  ma’am — I should 
have  thought  that  a lady  like  you  would  have 
liked  to  get  as  far  away  as  possible  from  dirt 
and  dust,  and  disgreeable  smells.” 

“I  can  face  worse  inconveniences  than  those, 
where  my  curiosity  is  concerned,”  said  Rosa- 
mond. 4 ‘And  I am  more  curious  to  see  the  un- 
inhabited rooms  at  Porthgenna  than  to  see  the 
Seven  Wonders  of  the  World.  Even  if  we  don’t 
settle  altogether  at  the  old  house,  I feel  certain 
that  we  shall  stay  there  for  some  time.” 

At  that  answer,  Mrs.  Jazeph  abruptly  turned 
away  and  asked  no  more  questions.  She  retired 
to  a corner  of  the  room  near  the  door,  where  the 
chair- bedstead  stood  which  the  doctor  had  pointed 
out  to  her — occupied  herself  for  a few  minutes  in 
making  it  ready  for  the  night — then  left  it  as 
suddenly  as  she  had  approached  it,  and  began  to 
walk  up  and  down  once  more.  This  unaccount- 
able restlessness,  which  had  already  surprised 
Rosamond,  now  made  her  feel  rather  uneasy — 
especially  when  she  once  or  twice  overheard  Mrs. 
Jazeph  talking  to  herself.  Judging  by  words 
and  fragments  of  sentences  that  were  audible 
now  and  then,  her  mind  was  still  running,  with 
the  most  inexplicable  persistency,  on  the  subject 
of  Porthgenna  Tower.  As  the  minutes  wore  on, 
and  she  continued  to  walk  up  and  down,  and 
still  went  on  talking,  Rosamond’s  uneasiness  be- 
gan to  strengthen  into  something  like  alarm. 
She  resolved  to  awaken  Mrs.  Jazeph,  in  the  least 
offensive  manner,  to  a sense  of  the  strangeness 
of  her  own  conduct,  by  noticing  that  she  was 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


183 


talking,  but  by  not  appearing  to  understand  that 
she  was  talking  to  herself. 

“What  did  you  say?”  asked  Rosamond,  put- 
ting the  question  at  a moment  when  the  nurse’s 
voice  was  most  distinctly  betraying  her  in  the 
act  of  thinking  aloud. 

Mrs.  Jazeph  stopped,  and  raised  her  head  va- 
cantly, as  if  she  had  been  awakened  out  of  a 
heavy  sleep. 

“I  thought  you  were  saying  something  more 
about  our  old  house,”  continued  Rosamond.  “I 
thought  I heard  you  say  that  I ought  not  to  go 
to  Porthgenna,  or  that  you  would  not  go  there 
in  my  place,  or  something  of  that  sort.” 

Mrs.  Jazeph  blushed  like  a young  girl.  “I 
think  you  must  have  been  mistaken,  ma’am,” 
she  said,  and  stooped  over  the  chair-bedstead 
again. 

Watching  her  anxiously,  Rosamond  saw  that, 
while  she  was  affecting  to  arrange  the  bedstead, 
she  was  doing  nothing  whatever  to  prepare  it  for 
being  slept  in.  What  did  that  mean?  What 
did  her  whole  conduct  mean  for  the  last  half- 
hour?  As  Mrs,  Frankland  asked  herself  those 
questions,  the  thrill  of  a terrible  suspicion  turned 
her  cold  to  the  very  roots  of  her  hair.  It  had 
never  occurred  to  her  before,  but  it  suddenly 
struck  her  now,  with  the  force  of  positive  con- 
viction, that  the  new  nurse  was  not  in  her  right 
senses. 

All  that  was  unaccountable  in  her  behavior— 
her  odd  disappearances  behind  the  curtains  at 
the  foot  of  the  bed;  her  lingering,  stealthy,  over- 


184 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


familiar  way  of  using  the  hair-brush ; her  silence 
at  one  time,  her  talkativeness  at  another;  her 
restlessness,  her  whispering  to  herself,  her  affec- 
tation of  being  deeply  engaged  in  doing  some- 
thing which  she  was  not  doing  at  all— every  one 
of  her  strange  actions  (otherwise  incomprehen- 
sible) became  intelligible  in  a moment  on  that 
one  dreadful  supposition  that  she  was  mad. 

Terrified  as  she  was,  Rosamond  kept  her  pres- 
ence of  mind.  One  of  her  arms  stole  instinctive- 
ly round  the  child;  and  she  had  half  raised  the 
other  to  catch  at  the  bell-rope  hanging  above  her 
pillow,  when  she  saw  Mrs.  Jazeph  turn  and  look 
at  her. 

A woman  possessed  only  of  ordinary  nerve 
would,  probably,  at  that  instant  have  pulled  at 
the  bell-rope  in  the  unreasoning  desperation  of 
sheer  fright.  Rosamond  had  courage  enough  to 
calculate  consequences,  and  to  remember  that 
Mrs.  Jazeph  would  have  time  to  lock  the  door, 
before  assistance  could  arrive,  if  she  betrayed 
her  suspicions  by  ringing  without  first  assigning 
some  plausible  reason  for  doing  so.  She  slowly 
closed  her  oyes  as  the  nurse  looked  at  her,  partly 
to  convey  the  notion  that  she  was  composing  her- 
self to  sleep — partly  to  gain  time  to  think  of 
some  safe  excuse  for  summoning  her  maid.  The 
flurry  of  her  spirits,  however,  interfered  with  the 
exercise  of  her  ingenuity.  Minute  after  minute 
dragged  on  heavily,  and  still  she  could  think  of 
no  assignable  reason  for  ringing  the  bell. 

She  was  just  doubting  whether  it  would  not 
be  safest  to  send  Mrs.  Jazeph  out  of  the  room, 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


185 


on  some  message  to  her  husband,  to  lock  the 
door  the  moment  she  was  alone,  and  then  to 
ring — she  was  just  doubting  whether  she  would 
boldly  adopt  this  course  of  proceeding  or  not, 
when  she  heard  the  rustle  of  the  nurse’s  silk 
dress  approaching  the  bedside. 

Her  first  impulse  was  to  snatch  at  the  bell- 
rope;  but  fear  had  paralyzed  her  hand;  she  could 
not  raise  it  from  the  pillow. 

The  rustling  of  the  silk  dress  ceased.  She  half 
unclosed  her  eyes,  and  saw  that  the  nurse  was 
stopping  midway  between  the  part  of  the  room 
from  which  she  had  advanced  and  the  bedside. 
There  was  nothing  wild  or  angry  in  her  look. 
The  agitation  which  her  face  expressed  was  the 
agitation  of  perplexity  and  alarm.  She  stood 
rapidly  clasping  and  unclasping  her  hands,  the 
image  of  bewilderment  and  distress — stood  so  for 
nearly  a minute — then  came  forward  a few  steps 
more,  and  said  inquiringly,  in  a whisper: 

“Not  asleep?  not  quite  asleep  yet?” 

Rosamond  tried  to  speak  in  answer,  but 
the  quick  beating  of  her  heart  seemed  to  rise 
up  to  her  very  lips,  and  to  stifle  the  words  on 
them. 

The  nurse  came  on,  still  with  the  same  per- 
plexity and  distress  in  her  face,  to  within  a foot 
of  the  bedside — knelt  down  by  the  pillow,  and 
looked  earnestly  at  Rosamond — shuddered  a lit- 
tle, and  glanced  all  round  her,  as  if  to  make  sure 
that  the  room  was  empty — bent  forward — hesi- 
tated— bent  nearer,  and  whispered  into  her  ear 
these  words: 


186 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“ When  you  go  to  Porthgenna,  keep  out  of  the 
Myrtle  Room!” 

The  hot  breath  of  the  woman,  as  she  spoke, 
beat  on  Rosamond’s  cheek,  and  seemed  to  fly  in 
one  fever-throb  through  every  vein  of  her  body. 
The  nervous  shock  of  that  unutterable  sensation 
burst  the  bonds  of  the  terror  that  had  hitherto 
held  her  motionless  and  speechless.  She  started 
up  in  bed  with  a scream,  caught  hold  of  the 
bell- rope,  and  pulled  it  violently. 

“Oh,  hush!  hush!”  cried  Mrs.  Jazeph,  sink- 
ing back  on  her  knees,  and  beating  her  hands 
together  despairingly  with  the  helpless  gesticu- 
lation of  a child. 

Rosamond  rang  again  and  again.  Hurrying 
footsteps  and  eager  voices  were  heard  outside  on 
the  stairs.  It  was  not  ten  o’clock  yet — nobody 
had  retired  for  the  night — and  the  violent  ring- 
ing had  already  alarmed  the  house. 

The  nurse  rose  to  her  feet,  staggered  back  from 
the  bedside,  and  supported  herself  against  the 
wall  of  the  room,  as  the  footsteps  and  the  voices 
reached  the  door.  She  said  not  another  word. 
The  hands  that  she  had  been  beating  together  so 
violently  but  an  instant  before  hung  down  nerve= 
less  at  her  side.  The  blank  of  a great  agony 
spread  over  all  her  face,  and  stilled  it  awfully. 

The  first  person  who  entered  the  room  was 
Mrs.  Frankland’s  maid,  and  the  landlady  fol- 
lowed her. 

“Fetch  Mr.  Frankland,”  said  Rosamond, 
faintly,  addressing  the  landlady.  “I  want  to 
speak  to  him  directly. — You,”  she  continued. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


187 


beckoning  to  the  maid,  “sit  by  me  here  till  your 
master  comes.  I have  been  dreadfully  fright- 
ened. Don’t  ask  me  questions;  but  stop  here.” 

The  maid  stared  at  her  mistress  in  amazement; 
then  looked  round  with  a disparaging  frown  at 
the  nurse.  When  the  landlady  left  the  room  to 
fetch  Mr.  Frankland,  she  had  moved  a little 
away  from  the  wall,  so  as  to  command  a full 
view  of  the  bed.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  with  a 
look  of  breathless  suspense,  of  devouring  anx- 
iety, on  Rosamond’s  face.  From  all  her  other 
features  the  expression  seemed  to  be  gone.  She 
said  nothing,  she  noticed  nothing.  She  did  not 
start,  she  did  not  move  aside  an  inch,  when  the 
landlady  returned,  and  led  Mr.  Frankland  to  his 
wife. 

“Lenny!  don’t  let  the  new  nurse  stop  here  to- 
night— pray,  pray  don’t!”  whispered  Rosamond, 
eagerly  catching  her  husband  by  the  arm. 

Warned  by  the  trembling  of  her  hand,  Mr. 
Frankland  laid  his  fingers  lightly  on  her  tem- 
ples and  on  her  heart. 

“Good  heavens,  Rosamond!  what  has  hap- 
pened? I left  you  quiet  and  comfortable,  and 
now — ” 

“I’ve  been  frightened,  dear — dreadfully  fright- 
ened, by  the  new  nurse.  Don’t  be  hard  on  her, 
poor  creature ; she  is  not  in  her  right  senses — I 
am  certain  she  is  not.  Only  get  her  away  quiet- 
ly— only  send  her  back  at  once  to  where  she  came 
from.  I shall  die  of  the  fright,  if  she  stops  here. 
She  has  been  behaving  so  strangely — she  has 
spoken  such  words  to  me — Lenny!  Lenny!  don’t 


188 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


let  go  of  my  hand.  She  came  stealing  up  to  me 
so  horribly,  just  where  you  are  now;  she  knelt 
down  at  my  ear,  and  whispered — oh,  such  words !” 

“Hush,  hush,  love!”  said  Mr.  Frankland,  get- 
ting seriously  alarmed  by  the  violence  of  Rosa- 
mond’s agitation.  “Never  mind  repeating  the 
words  now;  wait  till  you  are  calmer — I beg  and 
entreat  of  you,  wait  till  you  are  calmer.  I will 
do  everything  you  wish,  if  you  will  only  lie 
down  and  be  quiet,  and  try  to  compose  yourself 
before  you  say  another  word.  It  is  quite  enough 
for  me  to  know  that  this  woman  has  frightened 
yon,  and  that  you  wish  her  to  be  sent  away  with 
as  little  harshness  as  possible.  We  will  put  off 
all  further  explanations  till  to-morrow  morning. 
I deeply  regret  now  that  I did  not  persist  in 
carrying  out  my  own  idea  of  sending  for  a proper 
nurse  from  London.  Where  is  the  landlady?” 

The  landlady  placed  herself  by  Mr.  Frank- 
land’s  side. 

“Is  it  late?”  asked  Leonard. 

“Oh  no,  sir;  not  ten  o’clock  yet.” 

“Order  a fly  to  be  brought  to  the  door,  then,  as 
soon  as  possible,  if  you  please.  Where  is  the 
nurse?” 

“Standing  behind  you,  sir,  near  the  wall,” 
said  the  maid. 

As  Mr.  Frankland  turned  in  that  direction, 
Rosamond  whispered  to  him:  “Don’t  be  hard  on 
her,  Lenny.” 

The  maid,  looking  with  contemptuous  curios- 
ity at  Mrs.  Jazeph,  saw  the  whole  expression  of 
her  countenance  alter,  as  those  words  were 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


189 


spoken.  The  tears  rose  thick  in  her  eyes,  and 
flowed  down  her  cheeks.  The  deathly  spell  of 
stillness  that  had  lain  on  her  face  was  broken  in 
an  instant.  She  drew  back  again,  close  to  the 
wall,  and  leaned  against  it  as  before.  “Don’t 
be  hard  on  her  !”  the  maid  heard  her  repeat  to 
herself,  in  a low  sobbing  voice.  “Don’t  be  bard 
on  her!  Oh,  my  God!  she  said  that  kindly — 
she  said  that  kindly,  at  least!” 

“I  have  no  desire  to  speak  to  you,  or  to  use 
you  unkindly,”  said  Mr.  Frankland,  imperfect- 
ly hearing  what  she  said.  46I  know  nothing  of 
what  has  happened,  and  I make  no  accusations. 
I find  Mrs.  Frankland  violently  agitated  and 
frightened.;  I hear  her  connect  that  agitation 
with  you — not  angrily,  but  compassionately— 
and,  instead  of  speaking  harshly,  I prefer  leaving 
it  to  your  own  sense  of  what  is  right,  to  decide 
whether  your  attendance  here  ought  not  to  cease 
at  once.  I have  provided  the  proper  means  for 
your  conveyance  from  this  place;  and  I would 
suggest  that  you  should  make  our  apologies  to 
your  mistress,  and  say  nothing  more  than  that 
circumstances  have  happened  which  oblige  us  to 
dispense  with  your  services.” 

“You  have  been  considerate  toward  me,  sir,” 
said  Mrs,  Jazeph,  speaking  quietly,  and  with  a 
certain  gentle  dignity  in  her  manner,  “and  I will 
not  prove  myself  unworth}r  of  your  forbearance 
by  saying  what  I might  say  in  my  own  defense.” 
She  advanced  into  the  middle  of  the  room,  and 
stopped  where  she  could  see  Rosamond  plainly. 
Twice  she  attempted  to  speak,  and  twice  her 


19,; 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


voice  failed  her.  At  the  third  effort  she  suc- 
ceeded in  controlling  herself. 

^ “ Before  I go,  ma’am.”  she  said,  “I  hope  you 
will  believe  that  I have  no  bitter  feeling  against 
you  for  sending  me  away.  I am  not  angry — pray 
remember  always  that  I was  not  angry,  and  that 
I never  complained.” 

There  was  such  a forlornness  in  her  face,  such 
a sweet,  sorrowful  resignation  in  every  tone  of 
her  voice  during  the  utterance  of  these  few 
words,  that  Rosamond’s  heart  smote  her. 

“Why  did  you  frighten  me?”  she  asked,  half 
relenting. 

“Frighten  you?  How  could  I frighten  you? 
Oh,  me ! of  all  the  people  in  the  world,  how  could 
I frighten  you?” 

Mournfully  saying  those  words,  the  nurse  went 
to  the  chair  on  which  she  had  placed  her  bonnet 
and  shawl,  and  put  them  on.  The  landlady  and 
the  maid,  watching  her  with  curious  eyes,  de- 
tected that  she  was  again  weeping  bitterly,  and 
noticed  with  astonishment,  at  the  same  time, 
how  neatly  she  put  on  her  bonnet  and  shawl. 
The  wasted  hands  were  moving  mechanically, 
and  were  trembling  while  they  moved  — and 
yet,  slight  thing  though  it  was,  the  inexorable 
instinct  of  propriety  guided  their  most  trifling 
actions  still. 

On  her  way  to  the  door,  she  stopped  again  at 
passing  the  bedside,  looked  through  her  tears  at 
Rosamond  and  the  child,  struggled  a little  with 
herself,  and  then  spoke  her  farewell  words — 

“God  bless  you,  and  keep  you  and  your  child 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


191 


happy  and  prosperous,”  she  said.  “I  am  not 
angry  at  being  sent  away.  If  you  ever  think  of 
me  again,  after  to-night,  please  to  remember  that 
I was  not  angry,  and  that  I never  complained.” 
She  stood  for  a moment  longer,  still  weeping, 
and  still  looking  through  her  tears  at  the  mother 
and  child — then  turned  away  and  walked  to  the 
door.  Something  in  the  last  tones  of  her  voice 
caused  a silence  in  the  room.  Of  the  four  per- 
sons in  it  not  one  could  utter  a word,  as  the 
nurse  closed  the  door  gently,  and  went  out  from 
them  alone. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

A COUNCIL  OF  THREE. 

On  the  morning  after  the  departure  of  Mrs. 
Jazeph,  the  news  that  she  had  been  sent  away 
from  the  Tiger’s  Head  by  Mr.  Frankland’s  di- 
rections, reached  the  doctor’s  residence  from  the 
inn  just  as  he  was  sitting  down  to  breakfast. 
Finding  that  the  report  of  the  nurse’s  dismissal 
was  not  accompanied  by  any  satisfactory  expla- 
nation of  the  cause  of  it,  Mr.  Orridge  refused  to 
believe  that  her  attendance  on  Mrs.  Frankland 
had  really  ceased.  However,  although  he  de- 
clined to  credit  the  news,  he  was  so  far  disturbed 
by  it  that  he  finished  his  breakfast  in  a hurry, 
and  went  to  pay  his  morning  visit  at  the  Tiger’s 
Head  nearly  two  hours  before  the  time  at  which 
he  usually  attended  on  his  patient. 


192 


WORKS  OP  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


On  his  way  to  the  inn,  he  was  met  and  stopped 
by  the  one  waiter  attached  to  the  establishment. 
44 1 was  just  bringing  you  a message  from  Mr. 
Frankland,  sir,”  said  the  man.  “He  wants  to 
see  you  as  soon  as  possible.” 

4 4 Is  it  true  that  Mrs.  Frankland’s  nurse  was 
sent  away  last  night  by  Mr.  Frankland’s  order?” 
asked  Mr.  Orridge. 

4 4 Quite  true,  sir,”  answered  the  waiter. 

The  doctor  colored,  and  looked  seriously  dis- 
composed. One  of  the  most  precious  things  we 
have  about  us — especially  if  we  happen  to  belong 
to  the  medical  profession — is  our  dignity.  It 
struck  Mr.  Orridge  that  he  ought  to  have  been 
consulted  before  a nurse  of  his  recommending 
was  dismissed  from  her  situation  at  a moment’s 
notice.  Was  Mr.  Frankland  presuming  upon 
his  position  as  a gentleman  of  fortune?  The 
power  of  wealth  may  do  much  with  impunity, 
but  it  is  not  privileged  to  offer  any  practical  con- 
tradictions to  a man’s  good  opinion  of  himself. 
Never  had  the  doctor  thought  more  disrespect- 
fully of  rank  and  riches ; never  had  he  been  con- 
scious of  reflecting  on  republican  principles  with 
such  absolute  impartiality,  as  when  he  now  fol- 
lowed the  waiter  in  sullen  silence  to  Mr.  Frank 
land’s  room. 

44  Who  is  that?”  asked  Leonard,  when  he  heard 
the  door  open. 

4 4 Mr.  Orridge,  sir,”  said  the  waiter. 

4 4 Good-morning,”  said  Mr.  Orridge,  with  self, 
asserting  abruptness  and  familiarity. 

Mr.  Frankland  was  sitting  in  an  arm-chair, 


THE  DEAD  SECRET* 


193 


with  his  legs  crossed.  Mr.  Orridge  carefully 
selected  another  arm-chair,  and  crossed  his  legs 
on  the  model  of  Mr.  Frankland’s  the  moment  he 
sat  down.  Mr.  Frankland’s  hands  were  in  the 
pockets  of  his  dressing-gown.  Mr.  Orridge  had 
no  pockets,  except  in  his  coat-tails,  which  he 
could  not  conveniently  get  at;  but  he  put  his 
thumbs  into  the  arm-holes  of  his  waistcoat,  and 
asserted  himself  against  the  easy  insolence  of 
wealth  in  that  way.  It  made  no  difference  to 
him — so  curiously  narrow  is  the  range  of  a 
man’s  perceptions  when  he  is  insisting  on  his 
own  importance — that  Mr.  Frankland  was  blind, 
and  consequently  incapable  of  being  impressed 
by  the  independence  of  his  bearing.  Mr.  Or- 
ridge’s  own  dignity  was  vindicated  in  Mr.  Or- 
ridge’s  own  presence,  and  that  was  enough. 

“I  am  glad  you  have  come  so  early,  doctor,” 
said  Mr.  Frankland.  “ A very  unpleasant  thing 
happened  here  last  night.  I was  obliged  to  send 
the  new  nurse  away  at  a moment’s  notice.” 

4 ‘Were  you,  indeed?”  said  Mr.  Orridge,  de- 
fensively matching  Mr.  Frankland’s  composure 
by  an  assumption  of  the  completest  indifference. 
“Aha!  were  you,  indeed?” 

“If  there  had  been  time  to  send  and  consult 
you,  of  course  I should  have  been  only  too  glad 
to  have  done  so,”  continued  Leonard;  “but  it 
was  impossible  to  hesitate.  We  were  all  alarmed 
by  a loud  ringing  of  my  wife’s  bell ; I was  taken 
up  to  her  room,  and  found  her  in  a condition  of 
the  most  violent  agitation  and  alarm.  She  told 
me  she  had  been  dreadfully  frightened  by  the 
G— Vol.  16 


194 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


new  nurse;  declared  her  conviction  that  the  wo- 
man was  not  in  her  right  senses;  and  entreated 
that  I would  get  her  out  of  the  house  with  as  lit- 
tle delay  and  as  little  harshness  as  possible.  Un- 
der these  circumstances,  what  could  I do?  I 
may  seem  to  have  been  wanting  in  consideration 
toward  you,  in  proceeding  on  my  own  sole  re- 
sponsibility ; but  Mrs.  Frankland  was  in  such  a 
state  of  excitement  that  I could  not  tell  what 
might  be  the  consequence  of  opposing  her,  or  of 
venturing  on  any  delays;  and  after  the  difficulty 
had  been  got  over,  she  would  not  hear  of  your 
being  disturbed  by  a summons  to  the  inn.  I am 
sure  you  will  understand  this  explanation,  doc- 
tor, in  the  spirit  in  which  I offer  it.” 

Mr.  Orridge  began  to  look  a little  confused. 
His  solid  substructure  of  independence  was  soft- 
ening and  sinking  from  under  him.  He  sudden- 
ly found  himself  thinking  of  the  cultivated  man- 
ners of  the  wealthy  classes;  his  thumbs  slipped 
mechanically  out  of  the  arm-holes  of  his  waist- 
coat; and,  before  he  well  knew  what  he  was 
about,  he  was  stammering  his  way  through  all 
the  choicest  intricacies  of  a complimentary  and 
respectful  reply. 

“You  will  naturally  be  anxious  to  know  what 
the  new  nurse  said  or  did  to  frighten  my  wife 
so,”  pursued  Mr.  Frankland,  “I  can  tell  you 
nothing  in  detail;  for  Mrs.  Frankland  was  in 
such  a state  of  nervous  dread  last  night  that  I 
was  really  afraid  of  asking  for  any  explanations; 
and  I have  purposely  waited  to  make  inquiries 
this  morning  until  you  could  come  here  and  ac- 


THE*  DEAD  SECRETo 


195 


company  me  upstairs.  You  kindly  took  so  much 
trouble  to  secure  this  unlucky  woman’s  attend- 
ance, that  you  have  a right  to  hear  all  that  can 
be  alleged  against  her,  now  she  has  been  sent 
away.  Considering  all  things,  Mrs.  Frankland 
is  not  so  ill  this  morning  as  I was  afraid  she 
would  be.  She  expects  to  see  you  with  me;  and, 
if  you  will  kindly  give  me  your  arm,  we  will  go 
up  to  her  immediately.” 

On  entering  Mrs.  Frankland’s  room,  the  doc- 
tor saw  at  a glance  that  she  had  been  altered  for 
the  worse  by  the  events  of  the  past  evening.  He 
remarked  that  the  smile  with  which  she  greeted 
her  husband  was  the  faintest  and  saddest  he  had 
seen  on  her  face.  Her  eyes  looked  dim  and 
weary,  her  skin  was  dry,  her  pulse  was  irregu- 
lar. It  was  plain  that  she  had  passed  a wakeful 
night,  and  that  her  mind  was  not  at  ease.  She 
dismissed  the  inquiries  of  her  medical  attendant 
as  briefly  as  possible,  and  led  the  conversation 
immediately,  of  her  own  accord,  to  the  subject 
of  Mrs.  Jazeph. 

“I  suppose  you  have  heard  what  has  hap- 
pened,” she  said,  addressing  Mr.  Orridge.  “I 
can’t  tell  you  how  grieved  I am  about  it.  My 
conduct  must  look  in  your  eyes,  as  well  as  in  the 
eyes  of  the  poor  unfortunate  nurse,  the  conduct 
of  a capricious,  unfeeling  woman.  I am  ready 
to  cry  with  sorrow  and  vexation  when  I remem- 
ber how  thoughtless  I was,  and  how  little  cour- 
age I showed.  * Oh,  Lenny,  it  is  dreadful  to  hurt 
the  feelings  of  anybody,  but  to  have  pained  that 
unhappy,  helpless  woman  as  we  pained  her,  to 


196 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE*  COLLINS. 


have  made  her  cry  so  bitter^,  to  have  caused 
her  such  humiliation  and  wretchedness — ” 

“My  dear  Rosamond,”  interposed  Mr.  Frank- 
land,  “you  are  lamenting  effects,  and  forgetting 
causes  altogether.  Remember  what  a state  of 
terror  I found  you  in — there  must  have  been  some 
reason  for  that.  Remember,  too,  how  strong 
your  conviction  was  that  the  nurse  was  out  of 
her  senses.  Surely  you  have  not  altered  your 
opinion  on  that  point  already?” 

“It  is  that  very  opinion,  love,  that  has  been 
perplexing  and  worrying  me  all  night.  I can’t 
alter  it ; I feel  more  certain  than  ever  that  there 
must  be  something  wrong  with  the  poor  creat- 
ure’s intellect — and  yet,  when  I remember  how 
good-naturedly  she  came  here  to  help  me,  and 
how  anxious  she  seemed  to  make  herself  useful, 
I can’t  help  feeling  ashamed  of  my  suspicions;  I 
can’t  help  reproaching  myself  for  having  been 
the  cause  of  her  dismissal  last  night.  Mr.  Or- 
ridge,  did  you  notice  anything  in  Mrs.  Jazeph’s 
face  or  manner  which  might  lead  you  to  doubt 
whether  her  intellects  were  quite  as  sound  as  they 
ought  to  be?” 

“Certainly  not,  Mrs.  Frankland,  or  I should 
never  have  brought  her  here.  I should  not  have 
been  astonished  to  hear  that  she  was  suddenly 
taken  ill,  or  that  she  had  been  seized  with  a fit, 
or  that  some  slight  accident,  which  would  have 
frightened  nobody  else,  had  seriously  frightened 
her;  but  to  be  told  that  there  is  anything  ap- 
proaching to  derangement  in  her  faculties,  does, 
1 own,  fairly  surprise  me.” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


197 


“Can  I have  been  mistaken!”  exclaimed  Rosa- 
mond, looking  confusedly  and  self -distrustfully 
from  Mr.  Orridge  to  her  husband.  “Lenny! 
Lenny!  if  I have  been  mistaken,  I shall  never 
forgive  myself.’ ’ 

“Suppose  you  tell  us,  my  dear,  what  led  you 
to  suspect  that  she  was  mad?”  suggested  Mr. 
Frankland. 

Rosamond  hesitated.  “Things  that  are  great 
in  one’s  own  mind,”  she  said,  “seem  to  get  so 
little  when  they  are  put  into  words.  I almost 
despair  of  making  you  understand  what  good 
reason  I had  to  be  frightened — and  then,  I am 
afraid,  in  trying  to  do  justice  to  myself,  that  I 
may  not  do  justice  to  the  nurse.” 

“Tell  your  own  story,  my  love,  in  your  own 
way,  and  you  will  be  sure  to  tell  it  properly,” 
said  Mr.  Frankland. 

“And  pray  remember,”  added  Mr.  Orridge, 
“that  I attach  no  real  importance  to  my  opinion 
of  Mrs.  Jazeph.  I have  not  had  time  enough 
to  form  it.  Your  opportunities  of  observing  her 
have  been  far  more  numerous  than  mine.” 

Thus  encouraged,  Rosamond  plainly  and  sim- 
ply related  all  that  had  happened  in  her  room  on 
the  previous  evening,  up  to  the  time  when  she 
had  closed  her  eyes  and  had  heard  the  nurse  ap- 
proaching her  bedside.  Before  repeating  the 
extraordinary  words  that  Mrs.  Jazeph  had 
whispered  in  her  ear,  she  made  a pause,  and 
looked  earnestly  in  her  husband’s  face. 

“Why  do  you  stop?”  asked  Mr.  Frankland. 

“I  feel  nervous  and  flurried  still,  Lenny,  when 


198 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


I think  of  the  words  the  nurse  said  to  me,  just 
before  I rang  the  bell.” 

6 4 What  did  she  say?  Was  it  something  you 
would  rather  not  repeat?” 

“No!  no!  I am  most  anxious  to  repeat  it,  and 
to  hear  what  you  think  it  means.  As  I have 
just  told  you,  Lenny,  we  had  been  talking  of 
Porthgenna,  and  of  my  project  of  exploring  the 
north  rooms  as  soon  as  I got  there ; and  she  had 
been  asking  many  questions  about  the  old  house; 
appearing,  I must  say,  to  be  unaccountably  in- 
terested in  it,  considering  she  was  a stranger.” 
“Yes?” 

4 4 Well,  when  she  came  to  the  bedside,  she 
knelt  down  close  at  my  ear,  and  whispered  all 
on  a sudden — 4 When  you  go  to  Porthgenna,  keep 
out  of  the  Myrtle  Room!’  ” 

Mr.  Frankland  started.  “Is  there  such  a room 
at  Porthgenna?”  he  asked,  eagerly. 

44 1 never  heard  of  it,”  said  Rosamond. 

“Are  you  sure  of  that?”  inquired  Mr.  Or 
ridge,  tip  to  this  moment  the  doctor  had  pri- 
vately suspected  that  Mrs.  Frankland  must  have 
fallen  asleep  soon  after  he  left  her  the  evening 
before;  and  that  the  narrative  which  sbe  was 
now  relating,  with  ihe  sincerest  conviction  of  its 
reality,  was  actually  derived  from  nothing  but 
a series  of  vivid  impressions  produced  by  a 
dream. 

44 1 am  certain  1 never  heard  of  such  a room,” 
said  Rosamond.  44 1 left  Porthgenna  at  five  years 
old ; and  I had  never  heard  of  it  then.  My  father 
often  talked  of  the  house  in  after  years;  but  I 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


199 


am  certain  that  he  never  spoke  of  any  of  the 
rooms  by  any  particular  names;  and  I can  say 
the  same  of  your  father,  Lenny,  whenever  I was 
in  his  company  after  he  had  bought  the  place. 
Besides,  don’t  you  remember,  when  the  builder 
we  sent  down  to  survey  the  house  wrote  you  that 
letter,  he  complained  that  there  were  no  names 
of  the  rooms  on  the  different  keys  to  guide  him 
in  opening  the  doors,  and  that  he  could  get  no 
information  from  anybody  at  Porthgenna  on  the 
subject?  How  could  I ever  have  heard  of  the 
Myrtle  Room?  Who  was  there  to  tell  me?” 

Mr.  Orridge  began  to  look  perplexed ; it  seemed 
by  no  means  so  certain  that  Mrs.  Frankland  had 
been  dreaming,  after  all. 

“I  have  thought  of  nothing  else,”  said  Rosa- 
mond to  her  husband,  in  low,  whispering  tones. 
“I  can’t  get  those  mysterious  words  off  my  mind. 
Feel  my  heart,  Lenny — it  is  beating  quicker  than 
usual  only  with  saying  them  over  to  you.  They 
are  such  very  strange,  startling  words.  What  do 
you  think  they  mean?” 

“ Who  is  the  woman  who  spoke  them? — that  is 
the  most  important  question,”  said  Mr.  Frank- 
land. 

“But  why  did  she  say  the  words  to  me?  That 
is  what  1 want  to  know — that  is  what  I must 
know,  if  I am  ever  to  feel  easy  in  my  mind 
again!” 

“Gently,  Mrs.  Franldand,  gently!”  said  Mr. 
Orridge.  “For  your  child’s  sake,  as  well  as  for 
your  own,  pray  try  to  be  calm,  and  to  look  at 
this  very  mysterious  event  as  composedly  as  you 


200 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


can.  If  any  exertions  of  mine  can  throw  light 
upon  this  strange  woman  and  her  still  stranger 
conduct,  I will  not  spare  them.  I am  going  to- 
day to  her  mistress’s  house  to  see  one  of  the  chil- 
dren; and,  depend  upon  it,  I will  manage  in 
some  way  to  make  Mrs.  Jazeph  explain  herself. 
Her  mistress  shall  hear  every  word  that  you  have 
told  me;  and  I can  assure  you  she  is  just  the  sort 
of  downright,  resolute  woman  who  will  insist 
on  having  the  whole  mystery  instantly  cleared 
up.” 

Rosamond’s  weary  eyes  brightened  at  the 
doctor’s  proposal.  “Oh,  go  at  once,  Mr.  Or- 
ridge!”  she  exclaimed — “go  at  once!” 

“I  have  a great  deal  of  medical  work  to  do  in 
the  town  first,”  said  the  doctor,  smiling  at  Mrs 
Frank! and’s  impatience. 

“Begin  it,  then,  without  losing  another  in- 
stant,” said  Rosamond.  “The  baby  is  quite 
well,  and  I am  quite  well — we  need  not  detain 
you  a moment,  And,  Mr.  Orridge,  pray  be  as 
gentle  and  considerate  as  possible  with  the  poor 
woman ; and  tell  her  that  I never  should  have 
thought  of  sending  her  away  if  I had  not  been 
too  frightened  to  know  what  I was  about.  And 
say  how  sorry  I am  this  morning,  and  say — ” 

“My  dear,  if  Mrs.  Jazeph  is  really  not  in  her 
right  senses,  what  would  be  the  use  of  over- 
whelming her  with  all  these  excuses?”  inter- 
posed Mr.  Frankland.  “It  will  be  more  to  the 
purpose  if  Mr.  Orridge  will  kindly  explain  and 
apologize  for  us  to  her  mistress.” 

“Go!  Don’t  stop  to  talk — pray  go  at  once!” 


THE  BEAD  SECRET. 


201 


cried  Rosamond,  as  the  doctor  attempted  to  reply 
to  Mr.  Frankland. 

‘‘Don’t  be  afraid;  no  time  shall  be  lost,”  said 
Mr.  Orridge,  opening  the  door.  “But  remember, 
Mrs.  Frankland,  I shall  expect  you  to  reward 
your  embassador,  when  he  returns  from  his  mis- 
sion, by  showing  him  that  you  are  a little  more 
quiet  and  composed  than  I find  you  this  morn- 
ing.” With  that  parting  hint,  the  doctor  took 
his  leave. 

“ ‘When  you  go  to  Porthgenna,  keep  out  of 
the  Myrtle  Room,’  ” repeated  Mr.  Frankland, 
thoughtfully.  “Those  are  very  strange  words, 
Rosamond.  Who  can  this  woman  really  be? 
She  is  a perfect  stranger  to  both  of  us;  we  are 
brought  into  contact  with  her  by  the  merest  ac- 
cident ; and  we  find  that  she  knows  something 
about  our  own  house  of  which  we  were  both  per- 
fectly ignorant  until  she  chose  to  speak.” 

“But  the  warning,  Lenny — the  warning,  so 
pointedly  and  mysteriously  addressed  to  me? 
Oh,  if  I could  only  go  to  sleep  at  once,  and  not 
wake  again  till  the  doctor  comes  back!” 

“My  love,  try  not  to  count  too  certainly  on  our 
being  enlightened,  even  then.  The  woman  may 
refuse  to  explain  herself  to  anybody.” 

“Don’t  even  hint  at  such  a disappointment  as 
that,  Lenny — or  I shall  be  wanting  to  get  up, 
and  go  and  question  her  myself!  ” 

“Even  if  you  could  get  up  and  question  her, 
Rosamond,  you  might  find  it  impossible  to  make 
her  answer.  She  may  be  afraid  of  certain  con- 
sequences which  we  cannot  foresee ; and,  in  that 


202 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


case,  I can  only  repeat  that  it  is  more  than  prob- 
able she  will  explain  nothing — or,  perhaps,  still 
more  likely  that  she  will  coolly  deny  her  own 
words  altogether.” 

4 ‘Then,  Lenny,  we  will  put  them  to  the  proof 
for  ourselves.” 

“And  how  can  we  do  that?” 

“By  continuing  our  journey  to  Porthgenna 
the  moment  I am  allowed  to  travel,  and  by  leav- 
ing no  stone  unturned  when  we  get  there  until 
we  have  discovered  whether  there  is  or  is  not  any 
room  in  the  old  house  that  ever  was  known,  at 
any  time  of  its  existence,  by  the  name  of  the 
Myrtle  Room.” 

“And  suppose  it  should  turn  out  that  there  is 
such  a room?”  asked  Mr.  Frankland,  beginning 
to  feel  the  influence  of  his  wife’s  enthusiasm. 

“If  it  does  turn  out  so,”  said  Rosamond,  her 
voice  rising,  and  her  face  lighting  up  with  its 
accustomed  vivacity,  “how  can  you  doubt  what 
will  happen  next?  Am  I not  a woman?  And 
have  I not  been  forbidden  to  enter  the  Myrtle 
Room?  Lenny!  Lenny!  Do  you  know  so  little 
of  my  half  of  humanity  as  to  doubt  what  I should 
do  the  moment  the  room  was  discovered?  My 
darling,  as  a matter  of  course,  I should  walk 
into  it  immediately.” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


203 


CHAPTER  VI. 

ANOTHER  SURPRISE. 

With  all  the  haste  he  could  make,  it  was  one 
o’clock  in  the  afternoon  before  Mr.  Orridge’s 
professional  avocations  allowed  him  to  set  forth 
in  his  gig  for  Mrs.  Norbury’s  house.  He  drove 
there  with  such  good-will  that  he  accomplished 
the  half-hour’s  journey  in  twenty  minutes.  The 
footman  having  heard  the  rapid  approach  of  the 
gig,  opened  the  hall  door  the  instant  the  horse 
was  pulled  up  before  it,  and  confronted  the  doc- 
tor with  a smile  of  malicious  satisfaction. 

“Well,”  said  Mr.  Orridge,  bustling  into  the 
hall,  “you  were  all  rather  surprised  last  nighv 
when  the  housekeeper  came  back,  I suppose?” 

“Yes,  sir,  we  certainly  were  surprised  when 
she  came  back  last  night,  ” answered  the  foot' 
man;  “but  we  were  still  more  surprised  when 
she  went  away  again  this  morning.” 

“Went  away!  You  don’t  mean  to  say  she  is 
gone?” 

“Yes,  I do,  sir — she  has  lost  her  place,  and 
gone  for  good.”  The  footman  smiled  again,  as 
he  made  that  reply;  and  the  housemaid,  who 
happened  to  be  on  her  way  downstairs  while  he 
was  speaking,  and  to  hear  what  he  said,  smiled 
too.  Mrs.  Jazeph  had  evidently  been  no  favorite 
in  the  servants’  hall. 


204 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Amazement  prevented  Mr.  Orridge  from  utter- 
ing another  word.  Hearing  no  more  questions 
asked,  the  footman  threw  open  the  door  of  the 
breakfast-parlor  and  the  doctor  followed  him 
into  the  room.  Mrs.  Norbury  was  sitting  near 
the  window  in  a rigidly  upright  attitude,  in- 
flexibly watching  the  proceedings  of  her  invalid 
child  over  a basin  of  beef-tea. 

“I  know  what  you  are  going  to  talk  about  be- 
fore you  open  your  lips,”  said  the  outspoken  lady. 
“But  just  look  to  the  child  first,  and  say  what 
you  have  to  say  on  that  subject,  if  you  please, 
before  you  enter  on  any  other.” 

The  child  was  examined,  was  pronounced  to 
be  improving  rapidly,  and  was  carried  away  by 
the  nurse  to  lie  down  and  rest  a little.  As  soon 
as  the  door  of  the  room  had  closed,  Mrs.  Norbury 
abruptly  addressed  the  doctor,  interrupting  him, 
for  the  second  time,  just  as  he  was  about  to 
speak. 

“Now,  Mr.  Orridge,”  she  said,  “I  want  to  tell 
you  something  at  the  outset.  I am  a remarkably 
just  woman,  and  I have  no  quarrel  with  you. 
You  are  the  cause  of  my  having  been  treated 
with  the  most  audacious  insolence  by  three  peo- 
ple— but  you  are  the  innocent  cause,  and,  there- 
fore, I don’t  blame  you.” 

“I  am  really  at  a loss,”  Mr.  Orridge  began — 
“quite  at  a loss,  I assure  you — ” 

“To  know  what  I mean?”  said  Mrs.  Norbury. 
“I  will  soon  tell  you.  Were  you  not  the  origi- 
nal cause  of  my  sending  my  housekeeper  to  nurse 
Mrs.  Frankland?” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


205 


“Yes.”  Mr.  Orridge  could  not  hesitate  to 
acknowledge  that. 

“Well,”  pursued  Mrs.  Norbury,  “and  the  con- 
sequence of  my  sending  her  is,  as  I said  before, 
that  I am  treated  with  unparalleled  insolence  by 
no  less  than  three  people.  Mrs.  Frankland  takes 
an  insolent  whim  into  her  head,  and  affects  to 
be  frightened  by  my  housekeeper.  Mr.  Frank- 
land shows  an  insolent  readiness  to  humor  that 
whim,  and  hands  me  back  my  housekeeper  as  if 
she  was  a bad  shilling;  and  last,  and  worst  of 
all,  my  housekeeper  herself  insults  me  to  my 
face  as  soon  as  she  comes  back — insults  me,  Mr. 
Orridge,  to  that  degree  that  I give  her  twelve 
hours’  notice  to  leave  the  place.  Don’t  begin  to 
defend  yourself!  I know  all  about  it;  I know 
you  had  nothing  to  do  with  sending  her  back;  I 
never  said  you  had.  All  the  mischief  you  have 
done  is  innocent  mischief.  I don’t  blame  you, 
remember  that — whatever  you  do,  Mr.  Orridge, 
remember  that!  ” 

“I  had  no  idea  of  defending  myself,”  said  the 
doctor,  “for  I have  no  reason  to  do  so.  But  you 
surprise  me  beyond  all  powder  of  expression  when 
you  tell  me  that  Mrs.  Jazeph  treated  you  with 
incivility.” 

“Incivility !”  exclaimed  Mrs.  Norbury.  “Don’t 
talk  about  incivility — it’s  not  the  word.  Impu- 
dence is  the  word — brazen  impudence.  The  onty 
charitable  thing  to  say  of  Mrs.  Jazeph  is  that  she 
is  not  right  in  her  head.  I never  noticed  any- 
thing odd  about  her  myself;  but  the  servants 
used  to  laugh  at  her  for  being  as  timid  in  the 


206 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


dark  as  a child,  and  for  often  running  away  to 
her  candle  in  her  own  room  when  they  declined 
to  light  the  lamps  before  the  night  had  fairly  set 
in.  I never  troubled  my  head  about  this  before; 
but  I thought  of  it  last  night,  I can  tell  you, 
when  I found  her  looking  me  fiercely  in  the  face, 
and  contradicting  me  flatly  the  moment  I spoke 
to  her.” 

“I  should  have  thought  she  was  the  very  last 
woman  in  the  world  to  misbehave  herself  in  that 
way,”  answered  the  doctor. 

“Very  well.  Now  hear  what  happened  when 
she  came  back  last  night,”  said  Mrs.  Norbury. 
“She  got  here  just  as  we  were  going  upstairs  to 
bed.  Of  course,  I was  astonished;  and,  of  course, 
I called  her  into  the  drawing-room  for  an  explana- 
tion. There  was  nothing  very  unnatural  in  that 
course  of  proceeding,  I suppose.'  Well,  I noticed 
that  her  eyes  were  swollen  and  red,  and  that  her 
looks  were  remarkably  wild  and  queer;  but  I 
said  nothing,  and  waited  for  the  explanation. 
All  that  she  had  to  tell  me  was  that  something 
she  had  unintentionally  said  or  done  had  fright- 
ened Mrs.  Frankland,  and  that  Mrs.  Frankland’s 
husband  had  sent  her  away  on  the  spot.  I dis- 
believed this  at  first — and  very  naturally,  I think 
—but  she  persisted  in  the  story,  and  answered  all 
my  questions  by  declaring  that  she  could  tell  me 
nothing  more.  ‘So  then,’  I said,  ‘I  am  to  believe 
that,  after  I have  inconvenienced  myself  by  spar- 
ing you,  and  after  you  have  inconvenienced  your- 
self by  undertaking  the  business  of  nurse,  I am 
to  be  insulted,  and  you  are  to  be  insulted,  by 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


207 


your  being  sent  away  from  Mrs.  Frankland  on 
the  very  day  when  you  get  to  her,  because  she 
chooses  to  take  a whim  into  her  head?’  ‘I  never 
accused  Mrs.  Frankland  of  taking  a whim  into 
her  head,’  said  Mrs.  Jazeph,  and  stares  me 
straight  in  the  face,  with  such  a look  as  I never 
saw  in  her  eyes  before,  after  all  my  five  years’ 
experience  of  her.  4 What  do  you  mean?’  I 

asked,  giving  her  back  her  look,  I can  promise 
you.  ‘Are  you  base  enough  to  take  the  treat- 
ment you  have  received  in  the  light  of  a favor?’ 
‘I  am  just  enough,’  said  Mrs.  Jazeph,  as  sharp 
as  lightning,  and  still  with  that  same  stare 
straight  at  me — ‘I  am  just  enough  not  to  blame 
Mrs.  Frankland.’  ‘Oh,  you  are,  are  you?’  I 
said.  ‘Then  all  I can  tell  you  is,  that  I feel 
this  insult,  if  you  don’t;  and  that  I consider 
Mrs.  Frankland ’s  conduct  to  be  the  conduct 
of  an  ill-bred,  impudent,  capricious,  unfeeling 
woman.’  Mrs.  Jazeph  takes  a step  up  to  me 
—takes  a step,  I give  you  my  word  of  honor — 
and  says  distinctly,  in  so  many  words:  ‘Mrs. 
Frankland  is  neither  ill-bred,  impudent,  capri- 
cious, nor  unfeeling.’  ‘Do  you  mean  to  contra- 
dict me,  Mrs.  Jazeph?’  I asked.  ‘I  mean  to  de- 
fend Mrs.  Frankland  from  unjust  imputations,’ 
says  she.  Those  were  her  words,  Mr.  Orridge 
— on  my  honor,  as  a gentlewoman,  those  were 
exactly  her  words.” 

The  doctor’s  face  expressed  the  blankest  as- 
tonishment. Mrs.  ISTorbury  went  on : 

“I  was  in  a towering  passion — I don’t  mind 
confessing  that,  Mr.  Orridge  — but  I kept  it 


208 


WORKS  OF  WILKIF  COLLINS. 


down.  ‘Mrs.  Jazeph,’  I said,  ‘this  is  language 
that  I am  not  accustomed  to,  and  that  I certainly 
never  expected  to  hear  from  your  lips.  Why 
you  should  take  it  on  yourself  tc  defend  Mrs. 
Frankland  for  treating  us  both  with  contempt, 
and  to  contradict  me  for  resenting  it,  I neither 
know  nor  care  to  know.  But  I must  tell  you, 
in  plain  words,  that  I will  be  spoken  to  by  every 
person  in  my  employment,  from  my  housekeeper 
to  my  scullery  - maid,  with  respect.  I would 
have  given  warning  on  the  spot  to  any  other 
servant  in  this  house  who  had  behaved  to  me  as 
you  have  behaved.’  She  tried  to  interrupt  mo 
there,  but  I would  not  allow  her.  ‘No,’  I said, 
‘you  are  not  to  speak  to  me  just  yet;  you  are 
to  hear  me  out.  Any  other  servant,  I tell  you 
again,  should  have  left  this  place  to-morrow 
morning;  but  I will  be  more  than  just  to  you. 

I will  give  you  the  benefit  of  your  five  years’ 
good  conduct  in  my  service.  I will  leave  you 
the  rest  of  the  night  to  get  cool,  and  to  reflect  on 
what  has  passed  between  us;  and  I will  not  ex- 
pect you  to  make  the  proper  apologies  to  me  until 
the  morning.’  You  see,  Mr.  Orridge,  I was  de- 
termined to  act  justly  and  kindly;  I was  ready 
to  make  allowances — and  what  do  you  think  she 
said  in  return?  ‘I  am  willing  to  make  any  apolo- 
gies, ma’am,  for  offending  you,’  she  said,  ‘with- 
out the  delay  of  a single  minute;  but,  whether  it/ 
is  to-night,  or  whether  it  is  to-morrow  morning,  I 
cannot  stand  by  silent  when  I hear  Mrs.  Frank- 
land charged  with  acting  unkindly,  uncivilly,  or 
improperly  toward  me  or  toward  any  one.’  ‘Do 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


209 


you  tell  me  that  deliberately,  Mrs.  Jazeph?’  I 
asked.  ‘I  tell  it  you  sincerely,  ma’am,’  she  an- 
swered; ‘and  I am  very  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  do 
so.’  ‘Pray  don’t  trouble  yourself  to  be  sorry,’  I 
said,  ‘for  you  may  consider  yourself  no  longer  in 
my  service.  I will  order  the  steward  to  pay  you 
the  usual  month’s  wages  instead  of  the  month’s 
warning  the  first  thing  to-morrow;  and  I beg  that 
you  will  leave  the  house  as  soon  as  you  conven- 
iently can  afterward.’  ‘I  will  leave  to-morrow, 
ma’am,’  says  she,  ‘but  without  troubling  the 
steward.  I beg  respectfully,  and  with  many 
thanks  for  your  past  kindness,  to  decline  taking 
a month’s  money  which  I have  not  earned  by  a 
month’s  service.’  And  thereupon  she  courtesies 
and  goes  out.  That  is,  word  for  word,  what 
passed  between  us,  Mr.  Orridge.  Explain  the 
woman’s  conduct  in  your  own  way,  if  you  can. 
I say  that  it  is  utterly  incomprehensible,  unless 
you  agree  with  me  that  she  was  not  in  her  right 
senses  when  she  came  back  to  this  house  last 
night.” 

The  doctor  began  to  think,  after  what  he  had 
just  heard,  that  Mrs.  Frankland’s  suspicions  in 
relation  to  the  new  nurse  were  not  quite  so  un- 
founded as  he  had  been  at  first  disposed  to  con- 
sider them.  He  wisely  ref  rained,  however,  from 
complicating  matters  by  giving  utterance  to  what 
he  thought;  and,  after  answering  Mrs.  Norbury 
in  a few  vaguely  polite  words,  endeavored  to 
soothe  her  irritation  against  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank- 
land  by  assuring  her  that  he  came  as  the  bearer 
of  apologies  from  both  husband  and  wife,  for  the 


210 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


apparent  want  of  courtesy  and  consideration  in 
their  conduct  which  circumstances  had  made 
inevitable.  The  offended  lady,  however,  abso- 
lutely refused  to  be  propitiated.  She  rose  up 
and  waved  her  hand  with  an  air  of  great  dig- 
nity. 

“I  cannot  hear  a word  more  from  you,  Mr. 
Orridge,”  she  said;  “ 1 cannot  receive  any  apolo- 
gies which  are  made  indirectly.  If  Mr.  Frank- 
land  chooses  to  call  and  if  Mrs,  Frankland  conde- 
scends to  write  to  me,  I am  willing  to  think  no 
more  of  the  matter.  Under  any  other  circum- 
stances, I must  be  allowed  to  keep  my  present 
opinions  both  of  the  lady  and  the  gentleman. 
Don’t  say  another  word,  and  be  so  kind  as  to 
excuse  me  if  I leave  you,  and  go  up  to  the  nursery 
to  see  how  the  child  is  getting  on.  I am  de- 
lighted to  hear  that  you  think  her  so  much  bet- 
ter. Pray  call  again  to-morrow  or  next  day,  if 
you  conveniently  can.  Good-morning!” 

Half  amused  at  Mrs.  Horbury,  half  displeased 
at  the  curt  tone  she  adopted  toward  him,  Mr. 
Orridge  remained  for  a minute  or  two  alone  in 
the  breakfast  - parlor,  feeling  rather  undecided 
about  what  he  should  do  next.  He  was,  by  this 
time,  almost  as  much  interested  in  solving  the 
mystery  of  Mrs,  Jazeph’s  extraordinary  conduct 
as  Mrs.  Frankland  herself;  and  he  felt  unwill- 
ing, on  all  accounts,  to  go  back  to  the  Tiger’s 
Head,  and  merely  repeat  what  Mrs.  ISTorbury  had 
told  him,  without  being  able  to  complete  the  nar- 
rative by  informing  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland  of 
the  direction  that  the  housekeeper  had  taken  on 


THE  DEAD  SECRET, 


211 


leaving  her  situation.  After  some  pondering, 
he  determined  to  question  the  footman,  under  the 
pretense  of  desiring  to  know  if  his  gig  was  at  the 
door.  The  man  having  answered  the  bell,  and 
having  reported  the  gig  to  be  ready,  Mr.  Orridge, 
while  crossing  the  hall,  asked  him  carelessly  if 
he  knew  at  what  time  in  the  morning  Mrs. 
Jazeph  had  left  the  place. 

“ About  ten  o’clock,  sir,”  answered  the  foot- 
man. “ When  the  carrier  came  by  from  the  vil- 
lage, on  his  way  to  the  station  for  the  eleven 
o’clock  train.” 

“Oh!  I suppose  he  took  her  boxes?”  said  Mr. 
Orridge. 

“And  he  took  her,  too,  sir,”  said  the  man, 
with  a grin.  “She  had  to  ride,  for  once  in  her 
life,  at  any  rate,  in  a carrier’s  cart.” 

On  getting  back  to  West  Winston,  the  doctor 
stopped  at  the  station  to  collect  further  particu- 
lars, before  he  returned  to  the  Tiger’s  Head. 
No  trains,  either  up  or  down,  happened  to  be 
due  just  at  that  time.  The  station-master  was 
reading  the  newspaper,  and  the  porter  was  gar- 
dening on  the  slope  of  the  embankment. 

“Is  the  train  at  eleven  in  the  morning  an  up- 
train  or  a down-train?”  asked  Mr.  Orridge,  ad- 
dressing the  porter. 

“A  down-train.” 

“Did  many  people  go  by  it?” 

The  porter  repeated  the  names  of  some  of  the 
inhabitants  of  West  Winston. 

“Were  there  no  passengers  but  passengers 
from  the  town?”  inquired  the  doctor. 


212 


WORKS  OP  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“Yes,  sir.  I think  there  was  one  stranger — 
a lady.” 

“Did  the  station-master  issue  the  tickets  for 
that  train?” 

“Yes,  sir.” 

Mr.  Orridge  went  on  to  the  station-master. 

“Do  you  remember  giving  a ticket  this  morn- 
ing, by  the  eleven  o’clock  down -train,  to  a lady 
traveling  alone?” 

The  station-master  pondered.  “I  have  issued 
tickets,  up  and  down,  to  lialf-a-dozen  ladies  to- 
day,” he  answered,  doubtfully. 

“Yes,  but  I am  speaking  only  of  the  eleven 
o’clock  train,”  said  Mr.  Orridge.  “Try  if  you 
can’t  remember?” 

“Remember?  Stop!  I do  remember;  I know 
who  you  mean.  A lady  who  seemed  rather  flur- 
ried, and  who  put  a question  to  me  that  I am  not 
often  asked  at  this  station.  She  had  her  veil 
down,  I recollect,  and  she  got  here  for  the  eleven 
o’clock  train.  Crouch,  the  carrier,  brought  her 
trunk  into  the  office.” 

“That  is  the  woman.  Where  did  she  take  her 
ticket  for?” 

“For  Exeter.” 

“You  said  she  asked  you  a question?” 

“Yes:  a question  about  what  coaches  met  the 
rail  at  Exeter  to  take  travelers  into  Cornwall.  I 
told  her  we  were  rather  too  far  off  here  to  have 
the  correct  time-table,  and  recommended  her  to 
apply  for  information  to  the  Devonshire  people 
when  she  got  to  the  end  of  her  journey.  She 
seemed  a timid,  helpless  kind  of  woman  to  travel 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


213 


alone.  Anything  wrong  in  connection  with  her, 
sir?” 

“Oh,  no!  nothing,”  said  Mr.  Orridge,  leaving 
the  station-master  and  hastening  back  to  his  gig 
again. 

When  he  drew  up,  a few  minutes  afterward, 
at  the  door  of  the  Tiger’s  Head,  he  jumped  out 
of  his  vehicle  with  the  confident  air  of  a man 
who  has  done  all  that  could  be  expected  of  him. 
It  was  easy  to  face  Mrs.  Frankland  with  the  un- 
satisfactory news  of  Mrs.  Jazeph’s  departure, 
now  that  he  could  add,  on  the  best  authority, 
the  important  supplementary  information  that 
she  had  gone  to  Cornwall. 


BOOK  IV. 


CHAPTER  I. 

A PLOT  AGAINST  THE  SECRET. 

Toward  the  close  of  the  evening,  on  the  day 
after  Mr.  Orridge’s  interview  with  Mrs.  Nor- 
bury,  the  Druid  fast  coach,  running  through 
Cornwall  as  far  as  Truro,  set  down  three  inside 
passengers  at  the  door  of  the  booking-office  on 
arriving  at  its  destination.  Two  of  these  pas- 
sengers were  an  old  gentleman  and  his  daughter 3 
the  third  was  Mrs.  Jazepli. 

The  father  and  daughter  collected  their  lug- 


214 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


gage  and  entered  the  hotel;  the  outside  passen- 
gers branched  off  in  different  directions  with  as 
little  delay  as  possible;  Mrs.  Jazeph  alone  stood 
irresolute  on  the  pavement,  and  seemed  uncertain 
what  she  should  do  next.  When  the  coachman 
good-naturedly  endeavored  to  assist  her  in  arriv- 
ing at  a decision  of  some  kind,  by  asking  whether 
he  could  do  anything  to  help  her,  she  started,  and 
looked  at  him  suspiciously;  then,  appearing  to 
recollect  herself,  thanked  him  for  his  kindness, 
and  inquired,  with  a confusion  of  words  and  a 
hesitation  of  manner  which  appeared  very  ex- 
traordinary in  the  coachman’s  eyes,  whether 
she  might  be  allowed  to  leave  her  trunk  at  the 
booking-office  for  a little  while,  until  she  could 
return  and  call  for  it  again. 

Receiving  permission  to  leave  her  trunk  as 
long  as  she  pleased,  she  crossed  over  the  princi- 
pal street  of  the  town,  ascended  the  pavement  on 
the  opposite  side,  and  walked  down  the  first  turn- 
ing she  came  to.  On  entering  the  by-street  to 
which  the  turning  led,  she  glanced  back,  satis- 
fied herself  that  nobody  was  following  or  watch- 
ing her,  hastened  on  a few  yards,  and  stopped 
again  at  a small  shop  devoted  to  the  sale  of  book- 
cases, cabinets,  work-boxes,  and  writing-desks. 
After  first  looking  up  at  the  letters  painted  over 
the  door— Buschmann,  Cabinet-maker,  &c.— 
she  peered  in  at  the  shop  window.  A middle- 
aged  man,  with  a cheerful  face,  sat  behind  the 
counter,  polishing  a rosewood  bracket,  and  nod- 
ding briskly  at  regular  intervals,  as  if  he  were 
humming  a tune  and  keeping  time  to  it  with  his 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


215 


head.  Seeing  no  customers  in  the  shop,  Mrs. 
Jazeph  opened  the  door  and  walked  in. 

As  soon  as  she  was  inside,  she  became  aware 
that  the  cheerful  man  behind  the  counter  was 
keeping  time,  not  to  a tune  of  his  own  hum- 
ming, but  to  a tune  played  by  a musical  box. 
The  clear  ringing  notes  came  from  a parlor  be- 
hind the  shop,  and  the  air  the  box  was  playing 
was  the  lovely  “Batti,  Batti,”  of  Mozart. 

“Is  Mr,  Buschmann  at  home?”  asked  Mrs. 
Jazeph. 

“Yes,  ma’am,”  said  the  cheerful  man,  point- 
ing with  a smile  toward  the  door  that  led  into  the 
parlor.  “The  music  answers  for  him.  When- 
ever Mr.  Buschmann’s  box  is  playing,  Mr.  Busch- 
mann himself  is  not  far  off  from  it.  Did  you 
wish  to  see  him,  ma’am?” 

“If  there  is  nobody  with  him.” 

“Oh,  no,  he  is  quite  alone.  Shall  I give  any 
name?” 

Mrs.  Jazeph  opened  her  lips  to  answer,  hesi- 
tated, and  said  nothing.  The  shopman,  with  a 
quicker  delicacy  of  perception  than  might  have 
been  expected  from  him,  judging  by  outward 
appearances,  did  not  repeat  the  question,  but 
opened  the  door  at  once  and  admitted  the  visitor 
to  the  presence  of  Mr.  Buschmann. 

The  shop  parlor  was  a very  small  room,  with 
an  old  three-cornered  look  about  it,  with  a bright 
green  paper  on  the  walls,  with  a large  dried  fish 
in  a glass  case  over  the  fireplace,  with  two  meer- 
schaum pipes  hanging  together  on  the  wall  op- 
posite, and  a neat  round  table  placed  as  accu- 


216 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


rately  as  possible  in  the  middle  of  the  floor.  On 
the  table  were  tea-things,  bread,  butter,  a pot  of 
jam,  and  a musical  box  in  a quaint,  old-fash- 
ioned case;  and  by  the  side  of  the  table  sat 
a little,  rosy-faced,  white-haired,  simple-looking 
old  man,  who  started  up,  when  the  door  was 
opened,  with  an  appearance  of  extreme  confu- 
sion, and  touched  the  top  of  the  musical  box  so 
that  it  might  cease  playing  when  it  came  to  the 
end  of  the  air. 

“A  lady  to  speak  with  you,  sir,”  said  the 
cheerful  shopman.  “That  is  Mr.  Buschmann, 
ma’am,”  he  added,  in  a lower  tone,  seeing  Mrs. 
Jazeph  stop  in  apparent  uncertainty  on  entering 
the  parlor. 

“Will  you  please  to  take  a seat,  ma’am?”  said 
Mr.  Buschmann,  when  the  shopman  had  closed 
the  door  and  gone  back  to  his  counter.  “Excuse 
the  music;  it  will  stop  directly.”  He  spoke 
these  words  in  a foreign  accent,  but  with  perfect 
fluency. 

Mrs.  Jazeph  looked  at  him  earnestly  while  he 
was  addressing  her,  and  advanced  a step  or  two 
before  she  said  anything.  “Am  I so  changed?” 
she  asked  softly.  “So  sadly,  sadly  changed, 
Uncle  Joseph?” 

“Gott  im  Himmel!  it’s  her  voice — it’s  Sarah 
Leeson!”  cried  the  old  man,  running  up  to  his 
visitor  as  nimbly  as  if  he  was  a boy  again,  tak- 
ing both  her  hands,  and  kissing  her  with  an  odd, 
brisk  tenderness  on  the  cheek.  Although  his 
niece  was  not  at  all  above  the  average  height  of 
women,  Uncle  Joseph  was  so  short  that  he  had 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


217 


to  raise  himself  on  tiptoe  to  perform  the  cere- 
mony of  embracing  her. 

‘ 4 To  think  of  Sarah  coming  at  last!”  he  said, 
pressing  her  into  a chair.  “After  all  these  years 
and  years,  to  think  of  Sarah  Leeson  coming  to 
see  Uncle  Joseph  again!” 

“Sarah  still,  but  not  Sarah  Leeson,”  said  Mrs. 
Jazeph,  pressing  her  thin,  trembling  hands  firm- 
ly together,  and  looking  down  on  the  floor  while 
she  spoke. 

“Ah!  married?”  said  Mr.  Buschmann,  gayly. 
“Married,  of  course.  Tell  me  all  about  your 
husband,  Sarah.” 

“He  is  dead.  Dead  and  forgiven.”  She  mur- 
mured the  last  three  words  in  a whisper  to  her- 
self. 

“Ah ! I am  so  sorry  for  you ! I spoke  too  sud- 
denly, did  I not,  my  child?”  said  the  old  man. 
“Never  mind!  No,  no;  I don’t  mean  that — I 
mean  let  us  talk  of  something  else.  You  will 
have  a bit  of  bread  and  jam,  won’t  you,  Sarah? 
— ravishing  raspberry  jam  that  melts  in  your 
mouth.  Some  tea,  then?  So,  so,  she  will  have 
some  tea,  to  be  sure.  And  we  won’t  talk  of  our 
troubles — at  least,  not  just  yet.  You  look  very 
pale,  Sarah— very  much  older  than  you  ought  to 
look — no,  I don’t  mean  that  either;  I don’t  mean 
to  be  rude.  It  was  your  voice  I knew  you  by, 
my  child — your  voice  .that  your  poor  Uncle  Max 
always  said  would  have  made  your  fortune  if 
you  would  only  have  learned  to  sing.  Here’s 
his  pretty  music  box  going  still.  Don’t  look  so 
downhearted — don’t,  pray.  Do  listen  a little  to 


218 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


the  music:  you  remember  the  box? — my  brother 
Max’s  box?  Why,  how  you  look!  Have  you 
forgotten  the  box  that  the  divine  Mozart  gave  to 
my  brother  with  his  own  hand,  when  Max  was 
a boy  in  the  music  school  at  Vienna?  Listen!  I 
have  set  it  going  again.  It’s  a song  they  call 
‘Batti,  Batti’ ; it’s  a song  in  an  opera  of  Mo- 
zart’s. Ah!  beautiful!  beautiful!  Your  Uncle 
Max  said  that  all  music  was  comprehended  in 
that  one  song.  I know  nothing  about  music,  but 
I have  my  heart  and  my  ears,  and  they  tell  me 
that  Max  was  right.” 

Speaking  these  words  with  abundant  gesticu- 
lation and  amazing  volubility,  Mr.  Buschmann 
poured  out  a cup  of  tea  for  his  niece,  stirred  it 
carefully,  and,  patting  her  on  the  shoulder, 
begged  that  she  would  make  him  happy  by 
drinking  it  all  up  directly.  As  he  came  close 
to  her  to  press  this  request,  he  discovered  that 
the  tears  were  in  her  eyes,  and  that  she  was  try- 
ing to  take  her  handkerchief  from  her  pocket 
without  being  observed. 

“ Don’t  mind  me,”  she  said,  seeing  the  old 
man’s  face  sadden  as  he  looked  at  her;  “and 
don’t  think  me  forgetful  or  ungrateful,  Uncle 
Joseph.  I remember  the  box — I remember  every- 
thing that  you  used  to  take  an  interest  in,  when 
I was  younger  and  happier  than  I am  now. 
When  I last  saw  you,  I came  to  you  in  trouble; 
and  I come  to  you  in  trouble  once  more.  It 
seems  neglectful  in  me  never  to  have  written  to 
you  for  so  many  years  past;  but  my  life  has 
been  a very  sad  one,  and  I thought  I had  no 


THE  DEAD  SECRET, 


219 


right  to  lay  the  burden  of  my  sorrow  on  other 
shoulders  than  my  own.” 

Uncle  Joseph  shook  his  head  at  these  last 
words,  and  touched  the  stop  of  the  musical  box. 
‘ 4 Mozart  shall  wait  a little,”  he  said,  gravely 
“till  I have  told  you  something.  Sarah,  hear 
what  I say,  and  drink  your  tea,  and  own  to  me 
whether  I speak  the  truth  or  not.  What  did  I, 
Joseph  Buschmann,  tell  you,  when  you  first 
came  to  me  in  trouble,  fourteen,  fifteen,  ah  more! 
sixteen  years  ago,  in  this  town,  and  in  this  same 
house?  I said  then,  what  I say  again  now: 
‘Sarah’s  sorrow  is  my  sorrow,  and  Sarah’s  joy 
is  my  joy;’  and  if  any  man  asks  me  reasons  for 
that,  I have  three  to  give  him.” 

He  stopped  to  stir  up  his  niece’s  tea  for  the 
second  time,  and  to  draw  her  attention  to  it  by 
tapping  with  the  spoon  on  the  edge  of  the  cup. 

“Three  reasons,”  he  resumed.  “First,  you  are 
my  sister’s  child — some  of  her  flesh  and  blood, 
and  some  of  mine,  therefore,  also.  Second,  my 
sister,  my  brother,  and  lastly  me  myself,  we  owe 
to  your  good  English  father — all.  A little  word 
that  means  much,  and  may  be  said  again  and 
again  — all.  Your  father’s  friends  cry,  Fie! 
Agatha  Buschmann  is  poor!  Agatha  Busch- 
mann is  foreign!  But  your  father  loves  the 
poor  German  girl,  and  he  marries  her  in  spite  of 
their  Fie,  Fie.  Your  father’s  friends  cry  Fie! 
again;  Agatha  Buschmann  has  a musician 
brother,  who  gabbles  to  us  about  Mozart,  and 
who  cannot  make  to  his  porridge  salt.  Your 
father  says,  Good!  I like  his  gabble;  I like  his 


220 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


playing;  I shall  get  him  people  to  teach;  and 
while  I have  pinches  of  salt  in  my  kitchen,  he 
to  his  porridge  shall  have  pinches  of  salt  too. 
Your  father’s  friends  cry  Fie!  for  the  third  time. 
Agatha  Buschmann  has  another  brother,  a little 
Stupid-Head,  who  to  the  other’s  gabble  can  only 
listen  and  say  Amen.  Send  him  trotting;  for 
the  love  of  Heaven,  shut  up  all  the  doors  and 
send  Stupid-Head  trotting,  at  least.  Your  fa- 
ther says,  No!  Stupid-Head  has  his  wits  in  his 
hands;  he  can  cut  and  carve  and  polish;  help 
him  a little  at  the  starting,  and  after  he  shall 
help  himself.  They  are  all  gone  now  but  me. 
Your  father,  your  mother,  and  Uncle  Max — they 
are  all  gone.  Stupid-Head  alone  remains  to  re- 
member and  to  be  grateful — to  take  Sarah’s  sor- 
row for  his  sorrow,  and  Sarah’s  joy  for  his  joy.” 

He  stopped  again  to  blow  a speck  of  dust  off 
the  musical  box.  His  niece  endeavored  to  speak, 
but  he  held  up  his  hand,  and  shook  his  forefinger 
at  her  warningly. 

“No,”  he  said.  “It  is  yet  my  business  to  talk, 
and  your  business  to  drink  tea.  Have  I not  my 
third  reason  still?  Ah!  you  look  away  from  me; 
you  know  my  third  reason  before  I say  a word. 
When  I,  in  my  turn,  marry,  and  my  wife  dies,  and 
leaves  me  alone  with  little  Joseph,  and  when  the 
boy  falls  sick,  who  comes  then,  so  quiet,  so  pretty, 
so  neat,  with  the  bright  young  eyes,  and  the  hands 
so  tender  and  light?  Who  helps  me  with  little 
Joseph  by  night  and  by  day?  Who  makes  a pil- 
low for  him  on  her  arm  when  his  head  is  weary? 
Who  holds  this, box  patiently  at  his  ear? — yes! 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


221 


this  box,  that  the  hand  of  Mozart  has  touched — 
who  holds  it  closer,  closer  always,  when  little 
Joseph’s  sense  grows  dull,  and  he  moans  for  the 
friendly  music  that  he  has  known  from  a baby, 
the  friendly  music  that  he  can  now  so  hardly, 
hardly  hear?  Who  kneels  down  by  Uncle 
Joseph  when  his  heart  is  breaking,  and  says, 
‘Oh!  hush!  hush!  The  boy  is  gone  where  the 
better  music  plays,  where  the  sickness  shall 
never  waste  or  the  sorrow  touch  him  more’? 
Who?  Ah,  Sarah!  you  cannot  forget  those  days; 
you  cannot  forget  the  Long  Ago!  When  the 
trouble  is  bitter,  and  the  burden  is  heavy,  it  is 
cruelty  to  Uncle  Joseph  to  keep  away;  it  is  kind- 
ness to  him  to  come  here.  ” 

The  recollections  that  the  old  man  had  called 
up  found  their  way  tenderly  to  Sarah’s  heart. 
She  could  not  answer  him;  she  could  only  hold 
out  her  hand.  Uncle  Joseph  bent  down,  with  a 
quaint,  affectionate  gallantry,  and  kissed  it; 
then  stepped  back  again  to  his  place  by  the  mu- 
sical box.  “Come!”  he  said,  patting  it  cheer- 
fully, “we  will  say  no  more  for  a while.  Mo- 
zart’s box,  Max’s  box,  little  Joseph’s  box,  you 
shall  talk  to  us  again!” 

Having  put  the  tiny  machinery  in  motion,  he 
sat  down  by  the  table,  and  remained  silent  until 
the  air  had  been  played  over  twice.  Then  observ- 
ing that  his  niece  seemed  calmer,  he  spoke  to  her 
once  more. 

“You  are  in  trouble,  Sarah,”  he  said,  quietly. 
“You  tell  me  that,  and  I see  it  is  true  in  your 
face.  Are  you  grieving  for  your  husband?” 


222 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“I  grieve  that  I ever  met  him,”  she  answered. 
“I  grieve  that  I ever  married  him.  Now  that 
he  is  dead,  I cannot  grieve — I can  only  forgive 
him.” 

4 6 Forgive  him?  How  you  look,  Sarah,  when 
you  say  that!  Tell  me — ” 

“Uncle  Joseph!  I have  told  you  that  my  hus- 
band is  dead,  and  that  I have  forgiven  him.” 
“You  have  forgiven  him?  He  was  hard  and 
cruel  with  you,  then?  I see;  I see.  That  is  the 
end,  Sarah— but  the  beginning?  Is  the  begin- 
ning that  you  loved  him?” 

Her  pale  cheeks  flushed;  and  she  turned  her 
head  aside.  “It  is  hard  and  humbling  to  con- 
fess it,”  she  murmured,  without  raising  her 
eyes;  “but  you  force  the  truth  from  me,  uncle. 
I had  no  love  to  give  to  my  husband — no  love  to 
give  to  any  man.” 

“And  yet  you  married  him!  Wait!  it  is  not 
for  me  to  blame.  It  is  for  me  to  find  out,  not 
the  bad,  but  the  good.  Yes,  yes;  I shall  say  to 
myself,  she  married  him  when  she  was  poor  and 
helpless;  she  married  him  when  she  should  have 
come  to  Uncle  Joseph  instead.  I shall  say  that 
to  myself,  and  I shall  pity,  but  I shall  ask  no 
more.” 

Sarah  half  reached  her  hand  out  to  the  old 
man  again— then  suddenly  pushed  her  chair 
back,  and  changed  the  position  in  which  she  was 
sitting.  “It  is  true  that  I was  poor,”  she  said, 
looking  about  her  in  confusion,  and  speaking 
with  difficulty.  “But  you  are  so  kind  and  so 
good,  I cannot  accept  the  excuse  that  your  for- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


223 


bearance  makes  ror  me.  I did  not  marry  him 
because  I was  poor,  but — ” She  stopped,  clasped 
her  hands  together,  and  pushed  her  chair  back 
still  further  from  the  table. 

“So!  so!”  said  the  old  man,  noticing  her  con- 
fusion. “We  will  talk  about  it  no  more.” 

“I  had  no  excuse  of  love;  I had  no  excuse  of 
poverty,”  she  said,  with  a sudden  burst  of  bit- 
terness and  despair.  “Uncle  Joseph,  I married 
him  because  I was  too  weak  to  persist  in  saying 
No!  The  curse  of  weakness  and  fear  has  fol- 
lowed me  all  the  days  of  my  life!  I said  No  to 
him  once.  I said  No  to  him  twice.  Oh,  uncle, 
if  I could  only  have  said  it  for  the  third  time! 
But  he  followed  me,  he  frightened  me,  he  took 
away  from  me  all  the  little  will  of  my  own  that 
I had.  He  made  me  speak  as  he  wished  me  to 
speak,  and  go  where  he  wished  me  to  go.  No, 
no,  no — don’t  come  to  me,  uncle;  don’t  say  any- 
thing. He  is  gone;  he  is  dead — I have  got  my 
release;  I have  given  my  pardon!  Oh,  if  I 
could  only  go  away  and  hide  somewhere ! All 
people’s  eyes  seem  to  look  through  me;  all  peo- 
ple’s words  seem  to  threaten  me.  My  heart  has 
been  weary  ever  since  I was  a young  woman ; 
and  all  these  long,  long  years  it  has  never  got 
any  rest.  Hush!  the  man  in  the  shop — I forgot 
the  man  in  the  shop.  He  will  hear  us;  let  us 
talk  in  a whisper.  What  made  me  break  out 
so?  I’m  always  wrong.  Oh  me!  I’m  wrong 
when  I speak;  I’m  wrong  when  I say  nothing; 
wherever  I go  and  whatever  I do,  I’m  not  like 
other  people.  I seem  never  to  have  grown  up  in 


224 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


my  mind  since  I was  a little  child.  Hark!  the 
man  in  the  shop  is  moving — has  he  heard  me? 
Oh,  Uncle  Joseph!  do  you  think  he  has  heard 

me?” 

Looking  hardly  less  startled  than  his  niece, 
Uncle  Joseph  assured  her  that  the  door  was  solid, 
that  the  man’s  place  in  the  shop  was  at  some 
distance  from  it,  and  that  ib  was  impossible,  even 
if  he  heard  voices  in  the  parlor,  that  he  could 
also  distinguish  any  words  that  were  spoken  in  it. 

“You  are  sure  of  that?”  she  whispered,  hur- 
riedly. “Yes,  yes,  you  are  sure  of  that,  or  you 
would  not  have  told  me  so,  would  you?  We 
may  go  on  talking  now.  Not  about  my  married 
life;  that  is  buried  and  past.  Say  that  I had 
some  years  of  sorrow  and  suffering,  which  I de- 
served— say  that  I had  other  years  of  quiet,  when 
I was  living  in  service  with  masters  and  mis- 
tresses who  were  often  kind  to  me  when  my  fel- 
low-servants were  not — say  just  that  much  about 
my  life,  and  it  is  saying  enough.  The  trouble 
that  I am  in  now,  the  trouble  that  brings  me  to 
you,  goes  back  further  than  the  years  we  have 
been  talking  about  — goes  back,  back,  back, 
Uncle  Joseph,  to  the  distant  day  when  we  last 
met.” 

“Goes  back  all  through  the  sixteen  years!” 
exclaimed  the*  old  man,  incredulously.  “Goes 
back,  Sarah,  even  to  the  Long  Ago!” 

“Even  to  that  time.  Uncle,  you  remember 
where  I was  living,  and  what  had  happened  to 
me,  when — ” 

“When  you  came  here  in  secret?  When  you 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


225 


asked  me  to  hide  you?  That  was  the  same 
week,  Sarah,  when  your  mistress  died;  your 
mistress  who  lived  away  west  in  the  old  house. 
You  were  frightened,  then — pale  and  frightened 
as  I see  you  now.” 

“As  every  one  sees  me!  People  are  always 
staring  at  me;  always  thinking  that  I am  nerv- 
ous, always  pitying  me  for  being  ill.” 

Saying  these  words  with  a sudden  fretfulness, 
she  lifted  the  tea-cup  by  her  side  to  her  lips, 
drained  it  of  its  contents  at  a draught,  and 
pushed  it  across  the  table  to  be  filled  again.  “I 
have  come  all  over  thirsty  and  hot,”  she  whis- 
pered. “More  tea,  Uncle  Joseph — more  tea.” 
“It  is  cold,”  said  the  old  man.  “Wait  till  I 
ask  for  hot  water.” 

“No!”  she  exclaimed,  stopping  him  as  he  was 
about  to  rise.  % “Give  it  me  cold;  I like  it  cold. 
Let  nobody  else  come  in — I can’t  speak,  if  any- 
body else  comes  in.”  She  drew  her  chair  close 
to  her  uncle’s,  and  went  on:  “You  have  not  for- 
gotten how  frightened  I was  in  that  by-gone 
time — do  you  remember  why  I was  frightened?” 
“You  were  afraid  of  being  followed — that  was 
it,  Sarah.  I grow  old,  but  my  memory  keeps 
young.  You  were  afraid  of  your  master,  afraid 
of  his  sending  servants  after  you.  You  had  run 
away;  you  had  spoken  no  word  to  anybody; 
and  you  spoke  little — ah,  very,  very  little — even 
to  Uncle  Joseph — even  to  me.” 

“I  told  you,”  said  Sarah,  dropping  her  voice 
to  so  faint  a whisper  that  the  old  man  could 
barely  hear  her — “I  told  you  that  my  mistress 
H— Vol.  16 


226 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


had  left  me  a Secret  on  her  death- bed — a Secret 
in  a letter,  which  I was  to  give  to  my  master.  I 
told  you  I had  hidden  the  letter,  because  I could 
not  bring  myself  to  deliver  it,  because  I would 
rather  die  a thousand  times  over  than  be  ques- 
tioned about  what  I knew  of  it.  I told  you  so 
much,  I know.  Did  I tell  you  no  more?  Did  I 
not  say  that  my  mistress  made  me  take  an  oath 
on  the  Bible? — Uncle!  are  there  candles  in  the 
room?  Are  there  candles  we  can  light  without 
disturbing  anybody,  without  calling  anybody  in 
here?” 

6 4 There  are  candles  and  a match-box  in  my 
cupboard,”  answered  Uncle  Joseph.  “But  look 
out  of  window,  Sarah.  It  is  only  twilight — it  is 
not  dark  yet.” 

“Not  outside;  but  it  is  dark  here.” 

“Where?” 

“In  that  corner.  Let  us  have  candles.  I 
don’t  like  the  darkness  when  it  gathers  in  cor- 
ners and  creeps  along  walls.” 

Uncle  Joseph  looked  all  round  the  room  in- 
quiringly; and  smiled  to  himself  as  he  took  two 
candles  from  the  cupboard  and  lighted  them. 
“You  are  like  the  children,”  he  said,  playfully, 
while  he  pulled  down  the  window-blind.  “You 
are  afraid  of  the  dark.” 

Sarah  did  not  appear  to  hear  him.  Her  eyes 
were  fixed  on  the  corner  of  the  room  which  she 
had  pointed  out  the  moment  before.  When  he 
resumed  his  place  by  her  side,  she  never  looked 
round,  but  laid  her  hand  on  his  arm,  and  said  to 
him  suddenly — 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


227 


4 ‘ Uncle!  Do  you  believe  that  the  dead  can 
come  back  to  this  world,  and  follow  the  living 
everywhere,  and  see  what  they  do  in  it?” 

The  old  man  started.  “Sarah !”  he  said,  “why 
do  you  talk  so?  Why  do  you  ask  me  such  a 
question?” 

“Are  there  lonely  hours,”  she  went  on,  still 
never  looking  away  from  the  corner,  still  not 
seeming  to  hear  him,  “when  you  are  sometimes 
frightened  without  knowing  why — frightened 
all  over  in  an  instant,  from  head  to  foot?  Tell 
me,  uncle,  have  you  ever  felt  the  cold  steal  round 
and  round  the  roots  of  your  hair,  and  crawl  bit 
by  bit  down  your  back?  I have  felt  that  even  in 
the  summer.  I have  been  out  of  doors,  alone  on 
a wide  heath,  in  the  heat  and  brightness  of  noon, 
and  have  felt  as  if  chilly  fingers  were  touching 
me — chilly,  damp,  softly  creeping  fingers.  It 
says  in  the  New  Testament  that  the  dead  came 
once  out  of  their  graves,  and  went  into  the  holy 
city.  The  dead ! Have  they  rested,  rested  al- 
ways, rested  forever,  since  that  time?” 

Uncle  Joseph’s  simple  nature  recoiled  in  be- 
wilderment from  the  dark  and  daring  specula- 
tions to  which  his  niece’s  questions  led.  With- 
out saying  a word,  he  tried  to  draw  away  the 
arm  which  she  still  held;  but  the  only  result  of 
the  effort  was  to  make  her  tighten  her  grasp,  and 
bend  forward  in  her  chair  so  as  to  look  closer 
still  into  the  corner  of  the  room. 

“My  mistress  was  dying,”  she  said — “my  mis- 
tress was  very  near  her  grave,  when  she  made 
me  take  my  oath  on  the  Bible.  She  made  me 


228 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


swear  never  to  destroy  the  letter;  and  I did  not 
destroy  it.  She  made  me  swear  not  to  take  it 
away  with  me,  if  I left  the  house;  and  I did  not 
take  it  away.  She  would  have  made  me  swear, 
for  the  third  time,  to  give  it  to  my  master,  but 
death  was  too  quick  for  her — death  stopped  her 
from  fastening  that  third  oath  on  my  conscience. 
But  she  threatened  me,  uncle,  with  the  dead 
dampness  on  her  forehead,  and  the  dead  white- 
ness on  her  cheeks — she  threatened  to  come  to 
me  from  the  other  world  if  I thwarted  her — and 
I have  thwarted  her!” 

She  stopped,  suddenly  removed  her  hand  from 
the  old  man’s  arm,  and  made  a strange  gesture 
with  it  toward  the  part  of  the  room  on  which  her 
eyes  remained  fixed.  “Rest,  mistress,  rest,”  she 
whispered  under  her  breath.  “Is  my  master 
alive  now?  Rest,  till  the  drowned  rise.  Tell 
him  the  Secret  when  the  sea  gives  up  her  dead.” 

“Sarah!  Sarah!  you  are  changed — you  are  ill 
— you  frighten  me!”  cried  Uncle  Joseph,  start- 
ing to  his  feet. 

She  turned  round  slowly,  and  looked  at  him 
with  eyes  void  of  all  expression,  with  eyes  that 
seemed  to  be  staring  through  him  vacantly  at 
something  beyond. 

“Gott  im  Himmel!  what  does  she  see?”  He 
looked  round  as  the  exclamation  escaped  him. 
“Sarah!  what  is  it?  Are  you  faint?  Are  you 
ill?  Are  you  dreaming  with  your  eyes  open?” 

He  took  her  by  both  arms  and  shook  her.  At 
the  instant  when  she  felt  the  touch  of  his  hands, 
she  started  violently  and  trembled  all  over.  Their 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


229 


natural  expression  flew  back  into  her  eyes  with 
the  rapidity  of  a flash  of  light.  Without  saying 
a word,  she  hastily  resumed  her  seat  and  began 
stirring  the  cold  tea  round  and  round  in  her  cup, 
round  and  round  so  fast  that  the  liquid  overflowed 
into  the  saucer. 

“Come!  she  gets  more  like  herself,”  said 
Uncle  Joseph,  watching  her. 

“More  like  myself?”  she  repeated,  vacantly. 
“So!  so!”  said  the  old  man,  trying  to  soothe 
her.  “ Fou  are  ill — what  the  English  call  out  of 
sort.  They  are  good  doctors  here.  Wait  till  to- 
morrow, you  shall  have  the  best.” 

“I  want  no  doctors.  Don’t  speak  of  doctors* 
I can’t  bear  them;  they  look  at  me  with  such 
curious  eyes;  they  are  always  prying  into  me,  as 
if  they  wanted  to  find  out  something.  What 
have  we  been  stopping  for?  I had  so  much  to 
say;  and  we  seem  to  have  been  stopping  just 
when  we  ought  to  have  been  going  on.  I am  in 
grief  and  terror,  Uncle  Joseph;  in  grief  and  ter- 
ror again  about  the  Secret — ” 

“No  more  of  that!”  pleaded  the  old  man. 
“No  more  to-night  at  least!” 

“Why  not?” 

“Because  you  will  be  ill  again  with  talking 
about  it.  You  will  be  looking  into  that  corner 
and  dreaming  with  your  eyes  open.  You  are 
too  ill — yes,  yes,  Sarah;  you  are  too  ill.” 

“I’m  not  ill!  Oh,  why  does  everybody  keep 
telling  me  that  I am  ill?  Let  me  talk  about  it, 
uncle.  I have  come  to  talk  about  it;  I can’t  rest 
till  I have  told  you.” 


230 


WORKS  OP  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


She  spoke  with  a changing  color  and  an  em- 
barrassed manner,  now  apparently  conscious  for 
the  first  time  that  she  had  allowed  words  and 
actions  to  escape  her  which  it  would  have  been 
more  prudent  to  have  restrained. 

4 4 Don’t  notice  me  again,”  she  said,  with  her 
soft  voice,  and  her  gentle,  pleading  manner. 
4 4 Don’t  notice  me  if  I talk  or  look  as  I ought  not. 
I lose  myself  sometimes,  without  knowing  it; 
and  I suppose  1 lost  myself  just  now.  It  means 
nothing,  Uncle  Joseph — nothing,  indeed.” 

Endeavoring  thus  to  re-assure  the  old  man, 
she  again  altered  the  position  of  her  chair,  so  as 
to  place  her  back  toward  the  part  of  the  room  to 
which  her  face  had  been  hitherto  turned. 

4 4 Well,  well,  it  is  good  to  hear  that,”  said 
Uncle  Joseph;  44but  speak  no  more  about  the 
past  time,  for  fear  you  should  lose  yourself  again. 
Let  us  hear  about  what  is  now.  Yes,  yes,  give 
me  my  way.  Leave  the  Long  Ago  to  me,  and 
take  you  the  present  time.  I can  go  back  through 
the  sixteen  years  as  well  as  you.  Ah ! you  doubt 
it?  Hear  me  tell  you  what  happened  when  we 
last  met — hear  me  prove  myself  in  three  words: 
You  leave  your  place  at  the  old  house — you  run 
away  here — you  stop  in  hiding  with  me,  while 
your  master  and  his  servants  are  hunting  after 
you — you  start  off,  when  your  road  is  clear,  to 
work  for  your  living,  as  far  away  from  Cornwall 
as  you  can  get — I beg  and  pray  you  to  stop  with 
me,  but  you  are  afraid  of  your  master,  and  away 
you  go.  There!  that  is  the  whole  story  of  your 
trouble  the  last  time  you  came  to  this  house. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


231 


Leave  it  so;  and  tell  me  what  is  the  cause  of 
your  trouble  now.” 

“The  past  cause  of  my  trouble,  Uncle  Joseph, 
and  the  present  cause  of  my  trouble  are  the  same. 
The  Secret — ” 

“What!  you  will  go  back  to  that!” 

“I  must  go  back  to  it.” 

“And  why?” 

“Because  the  Secret  is  written  in  a letter — ” 

“Yes;  and  what  of  that?” 

“And  the  letter  is  in  danger  of  being  discov- 
ered. It  is,  uncle — it  is ! Sixteen  years,  it  has 
lain  hidden — and  now,  after  all  that  long  time, 
the  dreadful  chance  of  its  being  dragged  to  light 
has  come  like  a judgment.  The  one  person  in  all 
the  world  who  ought  nSver  to  set  eyes  on  that  let- 
ter is  the  very  person  who  is  most  likely  to  find 
it!” 

“So!  so!  Are  you  very  certain,  Sarah?  How 
do  you  know  it?” 

“I  know  it  from  her  own  lips.  Chance  brought 
us  together — ” 

“Us?  us?  What  do  you  mean  by  us?” 

“I  mean — uncle,  you  remember  that  Captain 
Treverton  was  my  master  when  I lived  at  Porth- 
genna  Tower?” 

“I  had  forgotten  his  name.  But  no  matter- 
go  on.” 

“When  I left  myplace,  Miss  Treverton  was  a 
little  girl  of  five  years  old.  She  is  a married  wo- 
man now — so  beautiful,  so  clever,  such  a sweet, 
youthful,  happy  face ! And  she  has  a child  as 
lovely  as  herself.  Oh,  uncle,  if  you  could  see 


232 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


her!  I would  give  so  much  if  you  could  only 
see  her!” 

Uncle  Joseph  kissed  his  hand  and  shrugged 
his  shoulders;  expressing  by  the  first  action  hom- 
age to  the  lady’s  beauty,  and  by  the  second  res- 
ignation under  the  misfortune  of  not  being  able 
to  see  her.  “ Well,  well,”  he  said,  philosophi- 
cally, “put  this  shining  woman  by,  and  let  us 
go  on.” 

“Her  name  is  Frankland  now,”  said  Sarah. 
“A  prettier  name  than  Treverton — a much  pret- 
tier name,  I think.  Her  husband  is  fond  of  her 
— I am  sure  he  is.  How  can  he  have  any  heart 
at  all,  and  not  be  fond  of  her?” 

“So!  so!”  exclaimed  Uncle  Joseph,  looking 
very  much  perplexed.  fcGood,  if  he  is  fond  of 
her — very  good.  But  what  labyrinth  are  we 
getting  into  now?  Wherefore  all  this  about  a 
husband  and  a wife?  My  word  of  honor,  Sarah, 
but  your  explanation  explains  nothing — it  only 
softens  my  brains.” 

“I  must  speak  of  her  and  of  Mr.  Frankland, 
uncle.  Porthgenna  Tower  belongs  to  her  hus- 
band now,  and  they  are  both  going  to  live  there.” 

“Ah!  we  are  getting  back  into  the  straight 
road  at  last.” 

“They  are  going  to  live  in  the  very  house  that 
holds  the  Secret;  they  are  going  to  repair  that 
very  part  of  it  where  the  letter  is  hidden.  She 
will  go  into  the  old  rooms — I heard  her  say  so; 
she  will  search  about  in  them  to  amuse  her  curi- 
osity ; workman  will  clear  them  out,  and  she  will 
stand  by  in  her  idle  hours,  looking  on.” 


THE  HEAD  SECRET. 


233 


“But  she  suspects  nothing  of  the  Secret?” 

“God  forbid  she  ever  should!” 

“And  there  are  many  rooms  in  the  house? 
And  the.  letter  in  which  the  Secret  is  Written  is 
hidden  in  one  of  the  many  ? Why  should  she 
hit  on  that  one?” 

“Because  I always  say  the  wrong  thing!  be- 
cause I always  get  frightened  and  lose  myself  at 
the  wrong  time!  The  letter  is  hidden  in  a room 
called  the  Myrtle  Boom,  and  I was  foolish  enough, 
weak  enough,  crazed  enough,  to  warn  her  against 
going  into  it.” 

“Ah,  Sarah!  Sarah!  that  was  a mistake,  in- 
deed.” 

“I  can’t  tell  what  possessed  me — I seemed  to 
lose  my  senses  when  I heard  her  talking  so  in- 
nocently of  amusing  herself  by  searching  through 
the  old  rooms,  and  when  I thought  of  what  she 
might  find  there.  It  was  getting  on  toward 
night,  too;  the  horrible  twilight  was  gathering 
in  the  corners  and  creeping  along  the  walls.  I 
longed  to  light  the  candles,  and  yet  I did  not 
dare,  for  fear  she  should  see  the  truth  in  my 
face.  And  when  I did  light  them  it  was  worse. 
Oh,  I don’t  know  how  I did  it!  I don’t  know 
why  I did  it!  I could  have  torn  my  tongue  out 
for  saying  the  words,  and  still  I said  them. 
Other  people  can  think  for  the  best ; other  people 
can  act  for  the  best;  other  people  have  had  a 
heavy  weight  laid  on  their  minds,  and  have  not 
dropped  under  it  as  I have.  Help  me,  uncle, 
for  the  sake  of  old  times  when  we  were  happy 
— help  me  with  a word  of  advice.” 


234 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“I  will  help  you;  I live  to  help  you,  Sarah! 
No,  no,  no — you  must  not  look  so  forlorn ; you 
must  not  look  at  me  with  those  crying  eyes. 
Come!  I will  advise  this  minute — but  say  in 
what;  only  say  in  what.” 

4 4 Have  I not  told  you?” 

4 4 No;  you  have  not  told  me  a word  yet.” 

44 1 will  tell  you  now.” 

She  paused,  looked  away  distrustfully  toward 
the  door  leading  into  the  shop,  listened  a little, 
and  resumed  44 1 am  not  at  the  end  of  my  jour- 
ney yet,  Uncle  Joseph — I am  here  on  my  way  to 
Porthgenna  Tower — on  my  way  to  the  Myrtle 
Room — on  my  way,  step  by  step,  to  the  place 
where  the  letter  lies  hid.  I dare  not  destroy  it; 
I dare  not  remove  it;  but  run  what  risk  I may, 
1 must  take  it  out  of  the  Myrtle  Room.” 

Uncle  Joseph  said  nothing,  but  he  shook  his 
head  despondingly. 

44 1 must,”  she  repeated;  4 4 before  Mrs.  Prank- 
land  gets  to  Porthgenna,  I must  take  that  letter 
out  of  the  Mrytle  Room.  There  are  places  in 
the  old  house  where  I may  hide  it  again — places 
that  she  would  never  think  of — places  that  she 
would  never  notice.  Only  let  me  get  it  out  of 
the  one  room  that  she  is  sure  to  search  in,  and 
I know  where  to  hide  it  from  her  and  from 
every  one  forever.” 

Uncle  Joseph  reflected,  and  shook  his  head 
again — then  said:  44Oneword,  Sarah;  does  Mrs. 
Frankland  know  which  is  the  Myrtle  Room?” 
44I  did  my  best  to  destroy  all  tra’ce  of  that 
name  when  I hid  the  letter;  I hope  and  believe 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


235 


she  does  not.  But  she  may  find  out — remember 
the  words  I was  crazed  enough  to  speak;  they 
will  set  her  seeking  for  the  Myrtle  Room ; they 
are  sure  to  do  that.” 

“ And  if  she  finds  it?  And  if  she  finds  the 
letter?” 

“It  will  cause  misery  to  innocent  people;  it 
will  bring  death  to  me>  Don’t  push  your  chair 
from  me,  uncle!  It  is  not  shameful  death  1 
speak  of.  The  worst  injury  I have  done  is  in- 
jury to  myself;  the  worst  death  I have  to  fear 
is  the  death  that  releases  a worn-out  spirit  and 
cures  a broken  heart.” 

“Enough — enough  so,”  said  the  old  man.  “I 
ask  for  no  secret,  Sarah,  that  is  not  yours  to  give. 
It  is  all  dark  to  me — very  dark,  very  confused. 
I look  away  from  it;  I look  only  toward  you. 
Not  with  doubt,  my  child,  but  with  pity,  and 
with  sorrow,  too— sorrow  that  ever  you  went 
near  that  house  of  Porthgenna — sorrow  that  you 
are  now  going  to  it  again.” 

“I  have  no  choice,  uncle,  but  to  go.  If  every 
step  on  the  road  to  Porthgenna  took  me  nearer 
and  nearer  to  my  death,  I must  still  tread  it. 
Knowing  what  I know,  I can’t  rest,  I can’t  sleep 
— my  very  breath  won’t  come  freely — till  I have 
got  that  letter  out  of  the  Myrtle  Room.  How  to 
do  it — oh,  Uncle  Joseph,  how  to  do  it,  without 
being  suspected,  without  being  discovered  by 
anybody — that  is  what  I would  almost  give  my 
life  to  know!  You  are  a man;  you  are  older 
and  wiser  than  I am;  no  living  creature  ever 
asked  you  for  help  in  vain — help  me  now!  my 


236 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


only  friend  in  all  the  world,  help  me  a little  with 
a word  of  advice!” 

Uncle  Joseph  rose  from  his  chair,  and  folded 
his  arms  resolutely,  and  looked  his  niece  full  in 
the  face. 

“You  will  go?”  he  said.  “Cost  what  it  may, 
you  will  go?  Say,  for  the  last  time,  Sarah,  is  it 
yes  or  no?” 

“Yes!  For  the  last  time,  I say  Yes.” 

“Good.  And  you  will  go  soon?” 

“I  must  go  to-morrow.  I dare  not  waste  a 
single  day;  hours  even  may  be  precious  for  any- 
thing I can  tell.” 

“You  promise  me,  my  child,  that  the  hiding 
of  this  Secret  does  good,  and  that  the  finding  of 
it  will  do  harm?” 

“If  it  was  the  last  word  I had  to  speak  in  this 
world,  I would  say  Yes!” 

“You  promise  me,  also,  that  you  want  noth- 
ing but  to  take  the  letter  out  of  the  Myrtle  Room, 
and  put  it  away  somewhere  else?” 

“Nothing  but  that.” 

“And  it  is  yours  to  take  and  yours  to  put?  No 
person  has  a better  right  to  touch  it  than  you?” 

“Now  that  my  master  is  dead,  no  person.” 

“Good.  You  have  given  me  my  resolution. 
I have  done.  Sit  you  there,  Sarah;  and  won- 
der, if  you  like,  but  say  nothing.”  With  these 
words,  Uncle  Joseph  stepped  lightly  to  the  door 
leading  into  the  shop,  opened  it,  and  called  to 
the  man  behind  the  counter. 

“Samuel,  my  friend,”  he  said.  “To-morrow 
I go  a little  ways  into  the  country  with  my  niece, 


THE  HEAD  SECRET. 


237 


who  is  this  lady  here.  You  keep  shop  and  take 
orders,  and  be  just  as  careful  as  you  always  are, 
till  I get  back.  If  anybody  comes  and  asks  for 
Mr.  Buschmann,  say  he  has  gone  a little  ways 
into  the  country,  and  will  be  back  in  a few  days. 
That  is  all.  Shut  up  the  shop,  Samuel,  my 
friend,  for  the  night ; and  go  to  your  supper.  I 
wish  you  good  appetite,  nice  victuals,  and  sound 
sleep.” 

Before  Samuel  could  thank  his  master  the  door 
was  shut  again.  Before  Sarah  could  say  a word, 
Uncle  Joseph’s  hand  was  on  her  lips,  and  Uncle 
J oseph’s  handkerchief  was  wiping  away  the  tears 
that  were  now  falling  fast  from  her  eyes. 

“I  will  have  no  more  talking,  and  no  more 
crying,”  said  the  old  man.  “I  am  a German, 
and  I glory  in  the  obstinacy  of  six  Englishmen, 
all  rolled  into  one.  To-night  you  sleep  here,  to- 
morrow we  talk  again  of  all  this.  You  want 
me  to  help  you  with  a word  of  advice.  I will 
help  you  with  myself,  which  is  better  than  ad- 
vice, and  I say  no  more  till  I fetch  my  pipe 
down  from  the  wall  there,  and  ask  him  to  make 
me  think.  I smoke  and  think  to-night — I talk 
and  do  to-morrow.  And  you,  you  go  up  to  bed ; 
you  take  Uncle  Max’s  music-box  in  your  hand, 
and  you  let  Mozart  sing  the  cradle  song  before 
you  go  to  sleep.  Yes,  yes,  my  child,  there  is  al- 
ways comfort  in  Mozart — better  comfort  than  in 
crying.  What  is  there  to  cry  about,  or  to  thank 
about?  Is  it  so  great  a wonder  that  I will  not 
let  my  sister’s  child  go  alone  to  make  a venture 
in  the  dark?  I said  Sarah’s  sorrow  was  my  sor- 


238 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


row,  and  Sarah’s  joy  my  joy;  and  now,  if  there 
is  no  way  of  escape — if  it  must  indeed  be  done 
— I also  say:  Sarah’s  risk  to-morrow  is  Uncle 
Joseph’s  risk  to-morrow,  too!  Good-night,  my 
child — good-night.” 


CHAPTER  II. 

OUTSIDE  THE  HOUSE. 

The  next  morning  wrought  no  change  in  the 
resolution  at  which  Uncle  Joseph  had  arrived 
overnight.  Out  of  the  amazement  and  confu- 
sion produced  in  his  mind  by  his  niece’s  avowal 
of  the  object  that  had  brought  her  to  Cornwall, 
he  had  contrived  to  extract  one  clear  and  definite 
conclusion  — that  she  was  obstinately  bent  on 
placing  herself  in  a situation  of  uncertainty,  if 
not  of  absolute  peril.  Once  persuaded  of  this, 
his  kindly  instincts  all  sprang  into  action,  his 
natural  firmness  on  the  side  of  self-sacrifice  as- 
serted itself,  and  his  determination  not  to  let 
Sarah  proceed  on  her  journey  alone,  followed  as 
a matter  of  course. 

Strong  in  the  self-denying  generosity  of  his 
purpose — though  strong  in  nothing  else — when 
he  and  his  niece  met  in  the  morning,  and  when 
Sarah  spoke  self-reproachfully  of  the  sacrifice 
that  he  was  making,  of  the  serious  hazards  to 
which  he  was  exposing  himself  for  her  sake,  he 
refused  to  listen  to  her  just  as  obstinately  as  he 
had  refused  the  previous  night.  There  was  no 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


239 


need,  he  said,  to  speak  another  word  on  that 
subject.  If  she  had  abandoned  her  intention  of 
going  to  Porthgenna,  she  had  only  to  say  so.  If 
she  had  not,  it  was  mere  waste  of  breath  to  talk 
any  more,  for  he  was  deaf  in  both  ears  to  every- 
thing in  the  shape  of  a remonstrance  that  she 
could  possibly  address  to  him.  Having  expressed 
himself  in  these  uncompromising  terms,  Uncle 
Joseph  abruptly  dismissed  the  subject,  and  tried 
to  turn  the  conversation  to  a cheerful  every-day 
topic  by  asking  his  niece  how  she  had  passed  the 
night. 

“I  was  too  anxious  to  sleep,”  she  answered. 
“I  can’t  fight  with  my  fears  and  misgivings  as 
some  people  can.  All  night  long  they  keep  me 
waking  and  thinking  as  if  it  was  day.” 

“Thinking  about  what?”  asked  Uncle  Joseph. 
“About  the  letter  that  is  hidden?  about  the  house 
of  Porthgenna?  about  the  Myrtle  Room?” 

“About  howto  get  into  the  Myrtle  Room,” 
she  said.  “The  more  I try  to  plan  and  ponder, 
and  settle  beforehand  what  I shall  do,  the  more 
confused  and  helpless  I seem  to  be.  All  last 
night,  uncle,  I was  trying  to  think  of  some  ex- 
cuse for  getting  inside  the  doors  of  Porthgenna 
Tower — and  yet,  if  I was  standing  on  the  house- 
step  at  this  moment,  I should  not  know  what  to 
say  when  the  servant  and  I first  came  face  to 
face.  How  are  we  to  persuade  them  to  let  us 
in?  How  am  I to  slip  out  of  sight,  even  if  we 
do  get  in?  Can’t  you  tell  me? — you  will  try. 
Uncle  Joseph — I am  sure  you  will  try.  Only 
help  me  so  far,  and  I think  I can  answer  for  the 


240 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


rest.  If  they  keep  the  keys  where  they  used  to 
keep  them  in  my  time,  ten  minutes  to  myself  is 
all  I should  want — ten  minutes,  only  ten  short 
minutes,  to  make  the  end  of  my  life  easier  to  me 
than  the  beginning  has  been ; to  help  me  to  grow 
old  quietly  and  resignedly,  if  it  is  God’s  will 
that  I should  live  out  my  years.  Oh,  how  happy 
people  must  be  who  have  all  the  courage  they 
want;  who  are  quick  and  clever,  and  have  their 
wits  about  them!  You  are  readier  than  I am, 
uncle;  you  said  last  night  that  you  would  think 
about  how  to  advise  me  for  the  best — what  did 
your  thoughts  end  in?  You  will  make  me  so 
much  easier  if  you  will  only  tell  me  that.” 

Uncle  Joseph  nodded  assentingly,  assumed  a 
look  of  the  profoundest  gravity,  and  slowly  laid 
his  forefinger  along  the  side  of  his  nose. 

44  What  did  I promise  you  last  night?”  he  said. 
4 4 Was  it  not  to  take  my  pipe,  and  ask  him  to 
make  me  think?  Good,  1 smoke  three  pipes, 
and  think  three  thoughts.  My  first  thought  is 
— Wait!  My  second  thought  is,  again — Wait! 
My  third  thought  is  yet  once  more — Wait ! You 
say  you  will  be  easy,  Sarah,  if  I tell  you  the  end 
of  all  my  thoughts.  Good,  I have  told  you. 
There  is  the  end — you  are  easy — if  is  all  right.” 

44Wait?”  repeated  Sarah,  with  a look  of  be- 
wilderment which  suggested  anything  rather 
than  a mind  at  ease.  44I  am  afraid,  uncle,  I 
don’t  quite  understand.  Wait  for  what?  Wait 
till  when?” 

44  Wait  till  we  arrive  at  the  house,  to  be  sure! 
Wait  till  we  are  got  outside  the  door;  then  is 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


241 


time  enough  to  think  how  we  are  to  get  in,”  said 
Uncle  Joseph,  with  an  air  of  conviction.  “You 
understand  now?” 

“Yes — at  least  I understand  better  than  I did. 
But  there  is  still  another  difficulty  left.  Uncle! 
I must  tell  you  more  than  I intended  ever  to  tell 
anybody — I must  tell  you  that  the  letter  is  locked 
up.” 

“Locked  up  in  a room?” 

“Worse  than  that — locked  up  in  something 
inside  the  room.  The  key  that  opens  the  door 
— even  if  I get  it — the  key  that  opens  the  door 
of  the  room  is  not  all  I want.  There  is  another 
key  besides  that,  a little  key — ” She  stopped, 
with  a confused,  startled  look. 

“A  little  key  that  you  have  lost?”  asked  Uncle 
Joseph. 

“I  threw  it  down  the  well  in  the  village  on 
the  morning  when  I made  my  escape  from 
Porthgenna.  Oh,  if  I had  only  kept  it  about 
me!  If  it  had  only  crossed  my  mind  that  I 
might  want  it  again!” 

“Well,  well;  there  is  no  help  for  that  now. 
Tell  me,  Sarah,  what  the  something  is  which  the 
letter  is  hidden  in.” 

“I  am  afraid  of  the  very  walls  hearing 
me.” 

“What  nonsense!  Come!  whisper  it  to  me.” 

She  looked  all  round  her  distrustfully,  and  then 
whispered  into  the  old  man’s  ear.  He  listened 
eagerly,  and  laughed  when  she  was  silent  again. 
“Bah!”  he  cried.  “If  that  is  all,  make  yourself 
happy.  As  you  wicked  English  people  say,  it  is 


242 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


as  easy  as  lying.  Why,  my  child,  you  can  burst 
him  open  for  yourself.” 

‘ 4 Burst  it  open?  How?” 

Uncle  Joseph  went  to  the  window-seat,  which 
was  made  on  the  old-fashioned  plan,  to  serve  the 
purpose  of  a chest  as  well  as  a seat.  He  opened 
the  lid,  searched  among  some  tools  which  lay  in 
the  receptacle  beneath,  and  took  out  a chisel. 
“See,”  he  said,  demonstrating  on  the  top  of  the 
window-seat  the  use  to  which  the  tool  was  to  be 
put.  “You  push  him  in  so — crick ! Then  you  pull 
him  up  so — crack ! It  is  the  business  of  one  lit- 
tle moment — crick ! crack ! — and  the  lock  is  done 
for.  Take  the  chisel  yourself,  wrap  him  up  in 
a bit  of  that  stout  paper  there,  and  put  him  in 
your  pocket.  What  are  you  waiting  for?  Do 
you  want  me  to  show  you  again,  or  do  you  think 
you  can  do  it  now  for  yourself?” 

“I  should  like  you  to  show  me  again,  Uncle 
Joseph,  but  not  now — not  till  we  have  got  to  the 
end  of  our  journey.” 

“Good.  Then  I may  finish  my  packing  up, 
and  go  ask  about  the  coach.  First  and  foremost, 
Mozart  must  put  on  his  great  coat,  and  travel 
with  us.”  He  took  up  the  musical  box,  and 
placed  it  carefully  in  a leather  case,  which  he 
slung  by  a strap  over  one  shoulder.  “Next, 
there  is  my  pipe,  the  tobacco  to  feed  him  with, 
and  the  matches  to  set  him  alight.  Last,  here 
is  my  old  German  knapsack,  which  I pack  last 
night.  See!  here  is  shirt,  night  - cap,  comb, 
pocket-handkerchief,  sock.  Say  I am  an  em- 
peror, and  what  do  I want  more  than  that? 


THE  BEAD  SECRET, 


243 


Good.  I have  Mozart,  I have  the  pipe,  I have 
the  knapsack.  I have — stop!  stop!  there  is  the 
old  leather  purse;  he  must  not  be  forgotten. 
Look!  here  he  is.  Listen!  Ting,  ting,  ting! 
He  jingles;  he  has  in  his  inside  money.  Aha, 
my  friend,  my  good  Leather,  you  shall  be  lighter 
and  leaner  before  you  come  home  again.  So,  so 
—it  is  all  complete;  we  are  ready  for  the  march 
now,  from  our  tops  to  our  toes.  Good-by,  Sarah, 
my  child,  for  a little  half-hour;  you  shall  wait 
here  and  amuse  yourself  while  I go  ask  for  the 
coach.” 

When  Uncle  Joseph  came  back,  he  brought  his 
niece  information  that  a coach  would  pass  through 
Truro  in  an  hour’s  time,  which  would  set  them 
down  at  a stage  not  more  than  five  or  six  miles 
distant  from  the  regular  post-town  of  Porthgenna. 
The  only  direct  conveyance  to  the  post-town  was 
a night-coach  which  carried  the  letter-bags,  and 
which  stopped  to  change  horses  at  Truro  at  the 
very  inconvenient  hour  of  two  o’clock  in  the 
morning.  Being  of  opinion  that  to  travel  at 
bed-time  was  to  make  a toil  of  a pleasure,  Uncle 
Joseph  recommended  taking  places  in  the  day- 
coach,  and  hiring  any  conveyance  that  could  be 
afterward  obtained  to  carry  his  niece  and  himself 
on  to  the  post-town.  By  this  arrangement  they 
would  not  only  secure  their  own  comfort,  but 
gain  the  additional  advantage  of  losing  as  little 
time  as  possible  at  Truro  before  proceeding  on 
their  journey  to  Porthgenna. 

The  plan  thus  proposed  was  the  plan  followed. 
When  the  coach  stopped  to  change  horses,  Uncle 


244 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Joseph  and  his  niece  were  waiting  to  take  their 
places  by  it.  They  found  all  the  inside  seats  but 
one  disengaged,  were  set  down  two  hours  after- 
ward at  the  stage  that  was  nearest  to  the  destina- 
tion for  which  they  were  bound,  hired  a pony- 
chaise  there,  and  reached  the  post-town  between 
one  and  two  o’clock  in  the  afternoon. 

Dismissing  their  conveyance  at  the  inn,  from 
motives  of  caution  which  were  urged  by  Sarah, 
they  set  forth  to  walk  across  the  moor  to  Porth- 
genna.  On  their  way  out  of  the  town  they  met 
the  postman  returning  from  his  morning’s  de- 
livery of  letters  in  the  surrounding  district.  His 
bag  had  been  much  heavier  and  his  walk  much 
longer  that  morning  than  usual.  Among  the 
extra  letters  that  had  taken  him  out  of  his  ordi- 
nary course  was  one  addressed  to  the  housekeeper 
at  Porthgenna  Tower,  which  he  had  delivered 
early  in  the  morning,  when  he  first  started  on 
his  rounds. 

Throughout  the  whole  journey,  Uncle  Joseph 
had  not  made  a single  reference  to  the  object  for 
which  it  had  been  undertaken.  Possessing  a 
child’s  simplicity  of  nature,  he  was  also  endowed 
with  a child’s  elasticity  of  disposition.  The 
doubts  and  forebodings  which  troubled  his  niece’s 
spirit,  and  kept  her  silent  and  thoughtful  and 
sad,  cast  no  darkening  shadow  over  the  natural 
sunshine  of  his  mind.  If  he  had  really  been 
traveling  for  pleasure  alone,  he  could  not  have 
enjoyed  more  thoroughly  than  he  did  the  differ- 
ent sights  and  events  of  the  journey.  All  the 
happiness  which  the  passing  minute  had  to  give 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


245 


him  he  took  as  readily  and  gratefully  as  if  there 
was  no  uncertainty  in  the  future,  no  doubt,  diffi- 
culty, or  danger  lying  in  wait  for  him  at  the  jour- 
ney’s end.  Before  he  had  been  half  an  hour  in 
the  coach  he  had  begun  to  tell  the  third  inside 
passenger — a rigid  old  lady,  who  stared  at  him 
in  speechless  amazement— the  whole  history  of 
the  musical  box,  ending  the  narrative  by  setting 
it  playing,  in  defiance  of  all  the  noise  that  the 
rolling  wheels  could  make.  When  they  left  the 
coach,  he  was  just  as  sociable  afterward  with  the 
driver  of  the  chaise,  vaunting  the  superiority  of 
German  beer  over  Cornish  cider,  and  making 
his  remarks  upon  the  objects  which  they  passed 
on  the  road  with  the  pleasantest  familiarity  and 
the  heartiest  enjoyment  of  his  own  jokes.  It 
was  not  till  he  and  Sarah  were  well  out  of  the 
little  town,  and  away  by  themselves  on  the  great 
moor  which  stretched  beyond  it,  that  his  manner 
altered,  and  his  talk  ceased  altogether.  After 
walking  on  in  silence  for  some  little  time,  with 
his  niece’s  arm  in  his,  he  suddenly  stopped,  looked 
her  earnestly  and  kindly  in  the  face,  and  laid  his 
hand  on  hers. 

“ There  is  yet  one  thing  more  I want  to  ask 
you,  my  child,”  he  said.  “ The  journey  has  put 
it  out  of  my  head,  but  it  has  been  in  my  heart 
all  the  time.  When  we  leave  this  place  of  Porth- 
genna,  and  get  back  to  my  house,  you  will  not 
goaway?  you  will  not  leave  Uucle  Joseph  again? 
Are  you  in  service  still,  Sarah.  Are  you  not 
your  own  master  yet?” 

“I  was  in  service  a few  days  since,”  she  an- 


246 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


swered;  “but  I am  free  now.  I have  lost  my 
place.” 

“Aha!  You  have  lost  your  place;  and  why?” 
“Because  I would  not  hear  an  innocent  person 
unjustly  blamed.  Because—” 

She  checked  herself.  But  the  few  words  she 
had  said  were  spoken  with  such  a suddenly 
heightened  color,  and  with  such  an  extraordi- 
nary emphasis  and  resolution  of  tone,  that  the 
old  man  opened  his  eyes  as  widely  as  possible, 
and  looked  at  his  niece  in  undisguised  astonish- 
ment. 

“So!  so!  so!”  he  exclaimed.  “What!  You 
have  had  a quarrel,  Sarah!  ” 

“Hush!  Don’t  ask  me  any  more  questions 
now!”  she  pleaded,  earnestly.  “I  am  too  anx- 
ious and  too  frightened  to  answer.  Uncle!  this 
is  Porthgenna  Moor — this  is  the  road  I passed 
over,  sixteen  years  ago,  when  I ran  away  to  you. 
Oh!  let  us  get  on,  pray  let  us  get  on!  I can’t 
think  of  anything  now  but  the  house  we  are  so 
near,  and  the  risk  we  are  going  to  run.” 

They  went  on  quickly,  in  silence.  Half  an 
hour’s  rapid  walking  brought  them  to  the  high- 
est elevation  on  the  moor,  and  gave  the  whole 
western  prospect  grandly  to  their  view. 

There,  below  them,  was  the  dark,  lonesome, 
spacious  structure  of  Porthgenna  Tower,  with 
the  sunlight  already  stealing  round  toward  the 
windows  of  the  west  front ! There  was  the  path 
winding  away  to  it  gracefully  over  the  brown 
moor,  in  curves  of  dazzling  white!  There,  lower 
down,  was  the  solitary  old  church,  with  the 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


247 


peaceful  burial-ground  nestling  by  its  side! 
There,  lower  still,  were  the  little  scattered 
roofs  of  the  fishermen’s  cottages!  And  there, 
beyond  all,  was  the  changeless  glory  of  the  sea, 
with  its  old  seething  lines  of  white  foam,  with 
the  old  winding  margin  of  its  yellow  shores! 
Sixteen  long  years — such  years  of  sorrow,  such 
years  of  suffering,  such  years  of  change,  counted 
by  the  pulses  of  the  living  heart! — had  passed 
over  the  dead  tranquillity  of  Porthgenna,  and 
had  altered  it  as  little  as  if  they  had  all  been 
contained  within  the  lapse  of  a single  day! 

The  moments  when  the  spirit  within  us  is 
most  deeply  stirred  are  almost  invariably  the 
moments  also  when  its  outward  manifestations 
are  hardest  to  detect.  Our  own  thoughts  rise 
above  us;  our  own  feelings  lie  deeper  than  we 
can  reach.  How  seldom  words  can  help  us, 
when  their  help  is  most  wanted!  How  often 
our  tears  are  dried  up  when  we  most  long  for 
them  to  relieve  us!  Was  there  ever  a strong 
emotion  in  this  world  that  could  adequately  ex- 
press its  own  strength?  What  third  person, 
brought  face  to  face  with  the  old  man  and  his 
niece,  as  they  now  stood  together  on  the  moor, 
would  have  suspected,  to  look  at  them,  that  the 
one  was  contemplating  the  landscape  with  noth- 
ing more  than  a stranger’s  curiosity,  and  that 
the  other  was  viewing  it  through  the  recollec- 
tions of  half  a lifetime?  The  eyes  of  both  were 
dry,  the  tongues  of  both  were  silent,  the  faces  of 
both  were  set  with  equal  attention  toward  the 
prospect.  Even  between  themselves  there  was 


248 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLTNS. 


no  real  sympathy,  no  intelligible  appeal  from 
one  spirit  to  the  other.  The  old  man’s  quiet  ad- 
miration of  the  view  was  not  more  briefly  and 
readily  expressed,  when  they  moved  forward 
and  spoke  to  each  other,  than  the  customary 
phrases  of  assent  by  which  his  niece  replied  to 
the  little  that  he  said.  How  many  moments 
there  are  in  this  mortal  life,  when,  with  all  our 
boasted  powers  of  speech,  the  words  of  our  vo- 
cabulary treacherously  fade  out,  and  the  page 
presents  nothing  to  us  but  the  sight  of  a perfect 
blank ! 

Slowly  descending  the  slope  of  the  moor,  the 
uncle  and  niece  drew  nearer  and  nearer  to  Porth- 
genna  Tower.  They  were  within  a quarter  of 
an  hour’s  walk  of  the  house  when  Sarah  stopped 
at  a place  where  a second  path  intersected  the 
main  foot-track  which  they  had  hitherto  been 
following.  On  the  left  hand,  as  they  now  stood, 
the  cross-path  ran  on  until  it  was  lost  to  the  eye 
in  the  expanse  of  the  moor.  On  the  right  hand 
it  led  straight  to  the  church. 

“What  do  we  stop  for  now?”  asked  Uncle 
Joseph,  looking  first  in  one  direction  and  then  in 
the  other. 

“Would  you  mind  waiting  for  me  here  a little 
while,  uncle?  I can’t  pass  the  church  path — ” 
(she  paused,  in  some  trouble  how  to  express  her- 
self)— “without  wishing  (as  I don’t  know  what 
may  happen  after  we  get  to  the  house),  without 
wishing*  to  see — to  look  at  something — ” She 
stopped  again,  and  turned  her  face  wistfully  to- 
ward the  church.  The  tears,  which  had  never 


THE  DEAD  SECRET, 


249 


wetted  her  eyes  at  the  first  view  of  Porthgenna, 
were  beginning  to  rise  in  them  now. 

Uncle  Joseph’s  natural  delicacy  warned  him 
that  it  would  be  best  to  abstain  from  asking  her 
for  any  explanations. 

“Go  you  where  you  like,  to  see  what  you  like,  ” 
he  said,  patting  her  on  the  shoulder.  “I  shall 
stop  here  to  make  myself  happy  with  my  pipe ; 
and  Mozart  shall  come  out  of  his  cage,  and  sing 
a little  in  this  fine  fresh  air.”  He  unslung  the 
leather  case  from  his  shoulder  while  he  spoke, 
took  out  the  musical  box,  and  set  it  ringing  its 
tiny  peal  to  the  second  of  the  two  airs  which  it 
was  constructed  to  play — the  minuet  in  Don 
Giovanni.  Sarah  left  him  looking  about;  care- 
fully, not  for  a seat  for  himself,  but  for  a smooth 
bit  of  rock  to  place  the  box  upon.  When  he  had 
found  this,  he  lit  his  pipe,  and  sat  down  to  his 
music  and  his  smoking,  like  an  epicure  to  a good 
dinner.  “Aha!”  he  exclaimed  to  himself,  look- 
ing round  as  composedly  at  the  wild  prospect  on 
all  sides  of  him  as  if  he  was  still  in  his  own  lit- 
tle parlor  at  Truro — “Aha!  Here  is  a fine  big 
music-room,  my  friend  Mozart,  for  you  to  sing  in ! 
Ouf ! there  is  wind  enough  in  this  place  to  blow 
your  pretty  dance-tune  out  to  sea,  and  give  the 
sailor-people  a taste  of  it  as  they  roll  about  in 
their  ships.” 

Meanwhile  Sarah  walked  on  rapidly  toward 
the  church,  and  entered  the  inclosure  of  the  lit- 
tle burial-ground.  Toward  that  same  part  of  it 
to  which  she  had  directed  her  steps  on  the  morn- 
ing of  her  mistress’s  death,  she  now  turned  her 


250 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


face  again,  after  a lapse  of  sixteen  years.  Here, 
at  least,  the  march  of  time  had  left  its  palpable 
track — its  footprints  whose  marks  were  graves. 
How  many  a little  spot  of  ground,  empty  when 
she  last  saw  it,  had  its  mound  and  its  headstone 
now ! The  one  grave  that  she  had  come  to  see — 
the  grave  which  had  stood  apart  in  the  by-gone 
days,  had  companion  graves  on  the  right  hand 
and  on  the  left.  She  could  not  have  singled  it 
out  but  for  the  weather  stains  on  the  head-stone, 
which  told  of  storm  and  rain  over  it,  that  had 
not  passed  over  the  rest.  The  mound  was  still 
kept  in  shape;  but  the  grass  grew  long,  and 
waved  a dreary  welcome  to  her  as  the  wind 
swept  through  it.  She  knelt  down  by  the  stone 
and  tried  to  read  the  inscription.  The  black 
paint  which  had  once  made  the  carved  words 
distinct  was  all  flayed  off  from  them  now.  To 
any  other  eyes  but  hers  the  very  name  of  the 
dead  man  would  have  been  hard  to  trace.  She 
sighed  heavily  as  she  followed  the  letters  of  the 
inscription  mechanically,  one  by  one,  with  her 
finger : 

SACRED  TO  THE  MEMORY 
OF 

$ugt)  J)  0 l H)  I)  e a 1 f 

AGED  26  YEARS. 

HE  MET  WITH  HIS  DEATH 
THROUGH  THE  FALL  OF  A ROCK 
IN 

. PORTIIGENNA  MINE, 

DECEMBER  1?TH,  1823. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


251 


Her  hand  lingered  over  the  letters  after  it  had 
followed  them  to  the  last  line,  and  she  bent  for- 
ward and  pressed  her  lips  on  the  stone. 

6 ‘Better  so!”  she  said  to  herself,  as  she  rose 
from  her  knees  and  looked  down  at  the  inscrip- 
tion for  the  last  time.  “Better  it  should  fade 
out  so ! Fewer  strangers’  eyes  will  see  it ; fewer 
strangers’  feet  will  follow  where  mine  have  been 
— he  will  lie  all  the  quieter  in  the  place  of  his 
rest!” 

She  brushed  the  tears  from  her  eyes  and  gath- 
ered a few  blades  of  grass  from  the  grave — then 
left  the  churchyard.  Outside  the  hedge  that 
surrounded  the  inclosure  she  stopped  for  a mo- 
ment, and  drew  from  the  bosom  of  her  dress  the 
little  book  of  Wesley’s  Hymns  which  she  had 
taken  with  her  from  the  desk  in  her  bedroom 
on  the  morning  of  her  flight  from  Porthgenna. 
The  withered  remains  of  the  grass  that  she  had 
plucked  from  the  grave  sixteen  years  ago  lay 
between  the  pages  still.  She  added  to  them  the 
fresh  fragments  that  she  had  just  gathered,  re- 
placed the  book  in  the  bosom  of  her  dress,  and 
hastened  back  over  the  moor  to  the  spot  where 
the  old  man  was  waiting  for  her. 

She  found  him  packing  up  the  musical  box 
again  in  its  leather  case.  “A  good  wind,”  he 
said,  holding  up  the  palm  of  his  hand  to  the 
fresh  breeze  that  was  sweeping  over  the  moor — 
“A  very  good  wind,  indeed,  if  you  take  him  by 
himself — but  a bitter  bad  wind  if  you  take  him 
with  Mozart.  He  blows  off  the  tune  as  if  it  was 
the  hat  on  my  head.  You  come  back,  my  child, 


252 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


just  at  the  nick  of  time — just  when  my  pipe  is 
done,  and  Mozart  is  ready  to  travel  along  the 
road  once  more.  Ah,  have  you  got  the  crying 
look  in  your  eyes  again,  Sarah?  What  have  you 
met  with  to  make  you  cry?  So!  so!  I see — the 
fewer  questions  I ask  just  now,  the  better  you 
will  like  me.  Good.  I have  done.  No!  I 
have  a last  question  yet.  What  are  we  stand- 
ing here  for?  why  do  we  not  go  on?” 

“Yes,  yes;  you  are  right,  Uncle  Joseph;  let 
us  go  on  at  once.  I shall  lose  all  the  little  cour- 
age I have  if  we  stay  here  much  longer  looking 
at  the  house.” 

They  proceeded  down  the  path  without  an- 
other moment  of  delay.  When  they  had  reached 
the  end  of  it,  they  stood  opposite  the  eastern 
boundary  wall  of  Porthgenna  Tower.  The  prin- 
cipal entrance  to  the  house,  which  had  been  very 
rarely  used  of  late  years,  was  in  the  west  front, 
and  was  approached  by  a terrace  road  that  over- 
looked the  sea.  The  smaller  entrance,  which 
was  generally  used,  was  situated  on  the  south 
side  of  the  building,  and  led  through  the  serv- 
ants’ offices  to  the  great  hall  and  the  west  stair- 
case. Sarah’s  old  experience  of  Porthgenna 
guided  her  instinctively  toward  this  part  of  the 
house.  She  led  her  companion  on  until  they 
gained  the  southern  angle  of  the  east  wall — then 
stopped  and  looked  about  her.  Since  they  had 
passed  the  postman  and  had  entered  on  tho  moor, 
they  had  not  set  eyes  on  a living  creature;  and 
still,  though  they  were  now  under  the  very  walls 
of  Porthgenna,  neither  man,  woman,  nor  child 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


253 


— not  even  a domestic  animal  — appeared  in 
view. 

6 ‘It  is  very  lonely  here,”  said  Sarah,  looking 
round  her  distrustfully;  “much  lonelier  than  it 
used  to  be.” 

“Is  it  only  to  tell  me  what  I can  see  for  myself 
that  you  are  stopping  now?”  asked  Uncle  Joseph, 
whose  inveterate  cheerfulness  would  have  been 
proof  against  the  solitude  of  Sahara  itself. 

“No,  no!”  she  answered,  in  a quick,  anxious 
whisper.  “But  the  bell  we  must  ring  at  is  so 
close — only  round  there — I should  like  to  know 
what  we  are  to  say  when  we  come  face  to  face 
with  the  servant.  You  told  me  it  was  time 
enough  to  think  about  that  when  we  were  at  the 
door.  Uncle!  we  are  all  but  at  the  door  now. 
What  shall  we  do?” 

“The  first  thing  to  do,”  said  Uncle  Joseph, 
shrugging  his  shoulders,  “is  surely  to  ring.” 

“Yes — but  when  the  servant  comes,  what  are 
we  to  say?” 

“Say?”  repeated  Uncle  Joseph,  knitting  his 
eyebrows  quite  fiercely  with  the  effort  of  think- 
ing, and  rapping  his  forehead  with  his  forefinger 
just  under  his  hat — “Say?  Stop,  stop,  stop, 
stop!  Ah,  I have  got  it ! I know!  Make  your- 
self quite  easy,  Sarah.  The  moment  the  door  is 
opened,  all  the  speaking  to  the  servant  shall  be 
done  by  me.” 

“Oh,  how  you  relieve  me ! What  shall  you  say?” 

“Say?  This — ‘How  do  you  do?  We  have 
come  to  see  the  house.’  ” 

When  he  had  disclosed  that  remarkable  expe- 


254 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


dient  for  effecting  an  entrance  into  Porthgenna 
Tower,  he  spread  out  both  his  hands  interroga- 
tively, drew  back  several  paces  from  his  niece, 
and  looked  at  her  with  the  serenely  self-satisfied 
air  of  a man  who  has  leaped,  at  one  mental 
bound,  from  a doubt  to  a discovery.  Sarah 
gazed  at  him  in  astonishment.  The  expression 
of  absolute  conviction  on  his  face  staggered  her. 
The  poorest  of  all  the  poor  excuses  for  gaining 
admission  into  the  house  which  she  herself  had 
thought  of,  and  had  rejected,  during  the  previ- 
ous night,  seemed  like  the  very  perfection  of  arti- 
fice by  comparison  with  such  a childishly  simple 
expedient  as  that  suggested  by  Uncle  Joseph. 
And  yet  there  he  stood,  apparently  quite  con- 
vinced that  he  had  hit  on  the  means  of  smooth- 
ing away  all  obstacles  at  once.  Not  knowing 
what  to  say,  not  believing  sufficiently  in  the 
validity  of  her  own  doubts  to  venture  on  openly 
expressing  an  opinion  either  one  way  or  the 
other,  she  took  the  last  refuge  that  was  now  left 
open  to  her — she  endeavored  to  gain  time. 

‘ 6 It  is  very,  very 'good  of  you,  uncle,  to  take  all 
the  difficulty  of  speaking  to  the  servant  on  your 
own  shoulders,”  she  said;  the  hidden  despond- 
ency at  her  heart  expressing  itself,  in  spite  of 
her,  in  the  faintness  of  her  voice  and  the  forlorn 
perplexity  of  her  eyes.  “But  would  you  mind 
waiting  a little  before  we  ring  at  the  door,  and 
walking  up  and  down  for  a few  minutes  by  the 
side  of  this  wall,  where  nobody  is  likely  to  see 
us?  I want  to  get  a little  more  time  to  prepare 
myself  for  the  trial  that  I have  to  go  through; 


THE  DEAD  SECRETc 


255 


and — and  in  case  the  servant  makes  any  diffi- 
culties about  letting  us  in — I mean  difficulties 
that  we  cannot  just  now  anticipate— would  it  not 
be  as  well  to  think  of  something  else  to  say  at 
the  door?  Perhaps,  if  you  were  to  consider 
again — ” 

“There  is  not  the  least  need,”  interposed  Uncle 
Joseph.  “I  have  only  to  speak  to  the  servant, 
and — crick!  crack!— you  will  see  that  we  shall 
get  in.  But  I will  walk  up  and  down  as  long  as 
you  please.  There  is  no  reason,  because  I have 
done  all  my  thinking  in  one  moment,  that  you 
should  have  done  all  your  thinking  in  one  mo- 
ment too.  No,  no,  no — no  reason  at  all.”  Say- 
ing those  words  with  a patronizing  air  and  a 
self-satisfied  smile,  which  would  have  been  irre- 
sistibly comical  under  any  less  critical  circum- 
stances, the  old  man  again  offered  his  arm  to  his 
niece,  and  led  her  back  over  the  broken  ground 
that  lay  under  the  eastern  wall  of  Porthgenna 
Tower. 

While  Sarah  was  waiting  in  doubt  outside  the 
walls,  it  hapened,  by  a curious  coincidence,  that 
another  person,  vested  with  the  highest  domestic 
authority,  was  also  waiting  in  doubt  inside  the 
walls.  This  person  was  no  other  than  the  house- 
keeper of  Porthgenna  Tower;  and  the  cause  of 
her  perplexity  was  nothing  less  than  the  letter 
which  had  been  delivered  by  the  postman  that 
very  morning. 

It  was  a letter  from  Mrs.  Frankland,  which 
had  been  written  after  she  had  held  a long  con- 


256 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


versation  with  her  husband  and  Mr.  Orridge,  on 
receiving  the  last  fragments  of  information  which 
the  doctor  was  able  to  communicate  in  reference 
to  Mrs.  Jazeph. 

The  housekeeper  had  read  the  letter  through 
over  and  over  again,  and  was  more  puzzled  and 
astonished  by  it  at  every  fresh  reading.  She 
was  now  waiting  for  the  return  of  the  steward, 
Mr.  Munder,  from  his  occupations  out  of  doors, 
with  the  intention  of  taking  his  opinion  on  the 
singular  communication  which  she  had  received 
from  her  mistress. 

While  Sarah  and  her  uncle  were  still  walking 
up  and  down  outside  the  eastern  wall,  Mr.  Mun- 
der entered  the  housekeeper’s  room.  He  was  one 
of  those  tall,  grave,  benevolent-looking  men, 
with  a conical  head,  a deep  voice,  a slow  step, 
and  a heavy  manner,  who  passively  contrive  to 
get  a great  reputation  for  wisdom  without  the 
trouble  of  saying  or  doing  anything  to  deserve 
it.  All  round  the  Porthgenna  neighborhood  the 
steward  was  popularly  spoken  of  as  a remarka- 
bly sound,  sensible  man;  and  the  housekeeper, 
although  a sharp  woman  in  other  matters,  in 
this  one  respect  shared  to  a large  extent  in  the 
general  delusion. 

“ Good-morning,  Mrs.  Pentreath,”  said  Mr. 
Munder.  “Any  news  to-day?”  What  a weight 
and  importance  his  deep  voice  and  his  impres- 
sively slow  method  of  using  it,  gave  to  those  two 
insignificant  sentences ! 

“News,  Mr.  Munder,  that  will  astonish  you,” 
replied  the  housekeeper.  “I  have  received  a let- 


the  dead  secret. 


257 


ter  this  morning  from  Mrs.  Frankland,  which  is, 
without  any  exception,  the  most  mystifying  thing 
of  the  sort  I ever  met  with.  I am  told  to  com* 
municate  the  letter  to  you ; and  I have  been  wait- 
ing the  whole  morning  to  hear  your  opinion  of  it. 
Pray  sit  down,  and  give  me  all  your  attention— 
for  I do  positively  assure  you  that  the  letter  re- 
quires it.” 

Mr.  Munder  sat  down,  and  became  the  picture 
of  attention  immediately — not  of  ordinary  atten- 
tion, which  can  be  wearied,  but  of  judicial  atten- 
tion, which  knows  no  fatigue,  and  is  superior 
alike  to  the  power  of  dullness  and  the  power  of 
time.  The  housekeeper,  without  wasting  the 
precious  minutes — Mr.  Munder’s  minutes,  which 
ranked  next  on  the  scale  of  importance  to  a prime 
minister’s! — opened  her  mistress’s  letter,  and, 
resisting  the  natural  temptation  to  make  a few 
more  prefatory  remarks  on  it,  immediately  fa- 
vored the  steward  with  the  first  paragraph,  in 
the  following  terms: 

“Mrs.  Pentreath — You  must  be  tired  of  re- 
ceiving letters  from  me,  fixing  a day  for  the  ar- 
rival of  Mr.  Frankland  and  myself.  On  this, 
the  third  occasion  of  my  writing  to  you  about 
our  plans,  it  will  be  best,  I think,  to  make  no 
third  appointment,  .but  merely  to  say  that  we 
shall  leave  West  Winston  for  Porthgenna  the 
moment  I can  get  the  doctor’s  permission  to 
travel.” 

“So  far,”  remarked  Mrs.  Pentreath,  placing 
the  letter  on  her  lap,  and  smoothing  it  out  rather 
I — Vol.  16 


258 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


irritably  while  she  spoke — “so  far,  there  is  noth- 
ing of  much  consequence.  The  letter  certainly 
seems  to  me  (between  ourselves)  to  be  written  in 
rather  poor  language — too  much  like  common 
talking  to  come  up  to  my  idea  of  what  a lady’s 
style  of  composition  ought  to  be — but  that  is  a 
matter  of  opinion.  I can’t  say,  and  I should  be 
the  last  person  to  wish  to  say,  that  the  beginning 
of  Mrs.  Frankland’s  letter  is  not,  upon  the  whole, 
perfectly  clear.  It  is  the  middle  and  the  end 
that  I wish  to  consult  you  about,  Mr.  Munder.” 

“Just  so,”  said  Mr.  Munder.  Only  two  words, 
but  more  meaning  in  them  than  two  hundred  in 
the  mouth  of  an  ordinary  man ! The  housekeeper 
cleared  her  throat  with  extraordinary  loudness 
and  elaboration,  and  read  on  thus: 

“My  principal  object  in  writing  these  lines  is 
to  request,  by  Mr.  Frankland’s  desire,  that  you 
and  Mr.  Munder  will  endeavor  to  ascertain,  as 
privately  as  possible,  whether  a person  now 
traveling  in  Cornwall — in  whom  we  happen  to 
be  much  interested— has  been  yet  seen  in  the 
neighborhood  of  Porthgenna.  The  person  in 
question  is  know  to  us  by  the  name  of  Mrs.  Ja- 
zeph.  She  is  an  elderly  woman,  of  quiet,  lady- 
like manners,  looking  nervous  and  in  delicate 
health.  She  dresses,  according  to  our  experience 
of  her,  with  extreme  propriety  and  neatness,  and 
in  dark  colors.  Her  eyes  have  a singular  ex- 
pression of  timidity,  her  voice  is  particularly  soft 
and  low,  and  her  manner  is  frequently  marked 
by  extreme  hesitation.  I am  thus  particular  in 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


259 


describing  her,  in  case  she  should  not  be  travel- 
ing under  the  name  by  which  we  know  her. 

4 4 For  reasons  which  it  is  not  necessary  to  state, 
both  my  husband  and  myself  think  it  probable 
that,  at  some  former  period  of  her  life,  Mrs.  Ja- 
zeph  may  have  been  connected  with  the  Porth- 
genna  neighborhood.  Whether  this  be  the  fact 
or  no,  it  is  indisputably  certain  that  she  is  famil- 
iar with  the  interior  of  Porthgenna  Tower,  and 
that  she  has  an  interest  of  some  kind,  quite  in- 
comprehensible to  us,  in  the  house.  Coupling 
these  facts  with  the  knowledge  we  have  of  her 
being  now  in  Cornwall,  we  think  it  just  within 
the  range  of  possibility  that  you  or  Mr.  Munder, 
or  some  other  person  in  our  employment,  may 
meet  with  her;  and  we  are  particularly  anxious, 
if  she  should  by  any  chance  ask  to  see  the  house, 
not  only  that  you  should  show  her  over  it  with 
perfect  readiness  and  civility,  but  also  that  you 
should  take  private  and  particular  notice  of  her 
conduct  from  the  time  when  she  enters  the  build- 
ing to  the  time  when  she  leaves  it.  Do  not  let 
her  out  of  your  sight  for  a moment;  and,  if  pos- 
sible, pray  get  some  trustworthy  person  to  follow 
her  unperceived,  and  ascertain  where  she  goes  to 
after  she  has  quitted  the  house.  It  is  of  the  most 
vital  importance  that  these  instructions  (strange 
as  they  may  seem  to  you)  should  be  implicitly 
obeyed  to  the  very  letter. 

44 1 have  only  room  and  time  to  add  that  we 
know  nothing  to  the  discredit  of  this  person,  and 
that  we  particularly  desire  you  will  manage  mat- 
ters with  sufficient  discretion  (in  case  you  meet 


260 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


with  her)  to  prevent  her  from  having  any  sus- 
picion that  you  are  acting  under  orders,  or  that 
you  have  any  especial  interest  in  watching  her 
movements.  You  will  be  good  enough  to  com- 
municate this  letter  to  the  steward,  and  you  are 
at  liberty  to  repeat  the  instructions  in  it  to  any 
other  trustworthy  person,  if  necessary. 

“ Yours  truly,  Rosamond  Frankland. 

“PS. — I have  left  my  room,  and  the  baby  is 
getting  on  charmingly.” 

4 4 There!”  said  the  housekeeper.  6 4 Who  is  to 
make  head  or  tail  of  that,  I should  like  to  know! 
Did  you  ever,  in  all  your  experience,  Mr.  Mun- 
der,  meet  with  such  a letter  before?  Here  is  a 
very  heavy  responsibility  laid  on  our  shoulders, 
without  one  word  of  explanation.  I have  been 
puzzling  my  brains  about  what  their  interest  in 
this  mysterious  woman  can  be  the  whole  morn- 
ing; and  the  more  I think,  the  less  comes  of  it. 
What  is  your  opinion,  Mr.  Munder?  We  ought 
to  do  something  immediately.  Is  there  any 
course  in  particular  which  you  feel  disposed  to 
point  oat?” 

Mr.  Munder  coughed  dubiously,  crossed  his 
right  leg  over  his  left,  put  his  head  critically  on 
one  side,  coughed  for  the  second  time,  and  looked 
at  the  housekeeper.  If  it  had  belonged  to  any 
other  man  in  the  world,  Mrs.  Pentreath  would 
have  considered  that  the  face  which  now  con- 
fronted hers  expressed  nothing  but  the  most  pro- 
found and  vacant  bewilderment.  But  it  was 
Mr.  Munder’s  face,  and  it  was  only  to  be 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


261 


looked  at  with  sentiments  of  respectful  expec- 
tation. 

“I  rather  think — ” began  Mr.  Munder. 

“ Yes?”  said  the  housekeeper,  eagerly. 

Before  another  word  could  be  spoken,  the  maid- 
servant entered  the  room  to  lay  the  cloth  for  Mrs. 
Pentreath’s  dinner. 

“ There,  there!  never  mind  now,  Betsey,”  said 
the  housekeeper,  impatiently.  “Don’t  lay  the 
cloth  till  I ring  for  you.  Mr.  Munder  and  I 
have  something  very  important  to  talk  about, 
and  we  can’t  be  interrupted  just  yet.” 

She  had  hardly  said  the  word,  before  an  inter- 
ruption of  the  most  unexpected  kind  happened. 
The  door-bell  rang.  This  was  a very  unusual 
occurrence  at  Porthgenna  Tower.  The  few  per- 
sons who  had  any  occasion  to  come  to  the  house 
on  domestic  business  always  entered  by  a small 
side  gate,  which  was  left  on  the  latch  in  the  day- 
time. 

“Who  in  the  world  can  that  be!”  exclaimed 
Mrs.  Pentreath,  hastening  to  the  window,  which 
commanded  a side  view  of  the  lower  doorsteps. 

The  first  object  that  met  her  eye  when  she 
looked  out  was  a lady  standing  on  the  lowest  step 
— a lady  dressed  very  neatly  in  quiet,  dark  colors* 

“Good  Heavens,  Mr.  Munder!”  cried  the 
housekeeper,  hurrying  back  to  the  table,  and 
snatching  up  Mrs.  Frankland’s  letter,  which 
she  had  left  on  it.  “There  is  a stranger  wait- 
ing at  the  door  at  this  very  moment ! a lady ! or, 
at  least,  a woman— and  dressed  neatly,  dressed 
in  dark  colors!  You  might  knock  me  down, 


262 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Mr.  Munder,  with  a feather!  Stop,  Betsey — 
stop  where  you  are!” 

“I  was  only  going,  ma’am,  to  answer  the 
door,”  said  Betsey,  in  amazement. 

“Stop  where  you  are,”  reiterated  Mrs,  Pen- 
treath,  composing  herself  by  a great  effort,  “I 
happen  to  have  certain  reasons,  on  this  particular 
occasion,  for  descending  out  of  my  own  place  and 
putting  myself  into  yours.  Stand  out  of  the 
way,  you  staring  fool!  I am  going  upstairs  to 
answer  that  ring  at  the  door  myself.” 


CHAPTER  III. 

INSIDE  THE  HOUSE. 

Mrs.  Pentreath’s  surprise  at  seeing  a lady 
through  the  window,  was  doubled  by  her  amaze- 
ment at  seeing  a gentleman  when  she  opened  the 
door.  Waiting  close  to  the  bell-handle,  after  he 
had  rung,  instead  of  rejoining  his  niece  on  the 
step,  Uncle  Joseph  stood  near  enough  to  the 
house  to  be  out  of  the  range  of  view  from  Mrs. 
Pentreath’s  window.  To  the  housekeeper’s  ex- 
cited imagination,  he  appeared  on  the  threshold 
with  the  suddenness  of  an  apparition-— tbe  appa- 
rition of  a little  rosy-faced  old  gentleman,  smil- 
ing, bowing,  and  taking  off  his  hat  with  a superb 
flourish  of  politeness,  which  had  something  quite 
superhuman  in  the  sweep  and  the  dexterity  of  it. 

“How  do  you  do?  We  have  come  to  see  the 
house,”  said  Uncle  Joseph,  trying  his  infallible 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


263 


expedient  for  gaining  admission  the  instant  the 
door  was  open. 

Mrs.  Pentreath  was  struck  speechless.  Who 
was  this  familiar  old  gentleman  with  the  for- 
eign accent  and  the  fantastic  bow?  and  what  did 
he  mean  by  talking  to  her  as  if  she  was  his  inti- 
mate friend?  Mrs.  Frankland’s  letter  said  not 
so  much,  from  beginning  to  end,  as  one  word 
about  him. 

4 4 How  do  you  do?  We  have  come  to  see  the 
house,”  repeated  Uncle  Joseph,  giving  his  irre- 
sistible form  of  salutation  the  benefit  of  a second 

trial. 

4 4 So  you  said  just  now,  sir,”  remarked  Mrs. 
Pentreath,  recovering  self-possession  enough  to 
use  her  tongue  in  her  own  defense.  “Does  the 
lady,”  she  continued,  looking  down  over  the  old 
man’s  shoulder  at  the  step  on  which  his  niece 
was  standing — 44does  the  lady  wish  to  see  the 
house,  too?” 

Sarah’s  gently  spoken  reply  in  the  affirmative, 
short  as  it  was,  convinced  the  housekeeper  that 
the  woman  described  in  Mrs.  Frankland’s  letter 
really  and  truly  stood  before  her.  Besides  the 
neat,  quiet  dress,  there  was  now  the  softly  toned 
voice,  and,  when  she  looked  up  for  a moment, 
there  were  the  timid  eyes  also  to  identify  her  by! 
In  relation  to  this  one  of  the  two  strangers,  Mrs. 
Pentreath,  however  agitated  and  surprised  she 
might  be,  could  no  longer  feel  any  uncertainty 
about  the  course  she  ought  to  adopt.  But  in  re- 
lation to  the  other  visitor,  the  incomprehensible 
old  foreigner,  she  was  beset  by  the  most  bewil- 


264  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

dering  doubts.  Would  it  be  safest  to  hold  to  the 
letter  of  Mrs.  Frankland’s  instructions,  and  ask 
him  to  wait  outside  while  the  lady  was  being 
shown  over  the  house?  or  would  it  be  best  to  act 
on  her  own  responsibility,  and  to  risk  giving 
him  admission  as  well  as  his  companion?  This 
was  a difficult  point  to  decide,  and  therefore  one 
which  it  was  necessary  to  submit  to  the  superior 
sagacity  of  Mr.  Munder. 

“Will  you  step  in  for  a moment,  and  wait 
here  while  I speak  to  the  steward?”  said  Mrs. 
Pentreath,  pointedly  neglecting  to  notice  the 
familiar  old  foreigner,  and  addressing  herself 
straight  through  him  to  the  lady  on  the  steps 
below. 

“Thank  you  very  much,”  said  Uncle  Joseph, 
smiling  and  bowing,  impervious  to  rebuke. 
“What  did  I tell  you?”  he  whispered  triumph- 
antly to  his  niece,  as  she  passed  him  on  her  way 
into  the  house. 

Mrs.  Pentreath’s  first  impulse  was  to  go  down- 
stairs at  once,  and  speak  to  Mr.  Munder.  But  a 
timely  recollection  of  that  part  of  Mrs.  Frank- 
land’s  letter  which  enjoined  her  not  to  lose  sight 
of  the  lady  in  the  quiet  dress,  brought  her  to  a 
stand-still  the  next  moment.  She  was  the  more 
easily  recalled  to  a remembrance  of  this  particu- 
lar injunction  by  a curious  alteration  in  the  con- 
duct of  the  lady  herself,  who  seemed  to  lose  all  her 
diffidence,  and  to  become  surprisingly  impatient 
to  lead  the  way  into  the  interior  of  the  house,  the 
moment  she  had  stepped  across  the  threshold. 

“Betsey  1”  cried  Mrs.  Pentreath,  cautiously 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


265 


calling  to  the  servant  after  she  had  only  retired 
a few  paces  from  the  visitors — “ Betsey!  ask  Mr. 
Munder  to  be  so  kind  as  to  step  this  way.” 

Mr.  Mander  presented  himself  with  great  de- 
liberation, and  with  a certain  lowering  dignity 
in  his  face.  He  had  been  accustomed  to  be 
treated  with  deference,  and  he  was  not  pleased 
with  the  housekeeper  for  unceremoniously  leav- 
ing him  the  moment  she  heard  the  ring  at  the 
bell,  without  giving  him  time  to  pronounce  an 
opinion  on  Mrs.  Frankland’s  letter.  Accord- 
ingly when  Mrs.  Pentreath,  in  a high  state  of 
excitement,  drew  him  aside  out  of  hearing,  and 
confided  to  him,  in  a whisper,  the  astounding 
intelligence  that  the  lady  in  whom  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Frankland  were  so  mysteriouly  interested  was, 
at  that  moment,  actually  standing  before  him  in 
the  house,  he  received  her  communication  with 
an  air  of  the  most  provoking  indifference.  It 
was  worse  still  when  she  proceeded  to  state  her 
difficulties — warily  keeping  her  eye  on  the  two 
strangers  all  the  while.  Appeal  as  respectfully 
as  she  might  to  Mr.  Munder’s  superior  wisdom 
for  guidance,  he  persisted  in  listening  with  a 
disparaging  frown,  and  ended  by  irritably  con- 
tradicting her  when  she  ventured  to  add,  in  con- 
clusion, that  her  own  ideas  inclined  her  to  as- 
sume no  responsibility,  and  to  beg  the  foreign 
gentleman  to  wait  outside  while  the  lady,  in 
conformity  with  Mrs.  Frankland’s  instructions, 
was  being  shown  over  the  house. 

4 ‘Such  may  be  your  opinion,  ma’am,”  said 
Mr.  Munder,  severely.  “It  is  not  mine.” 


266 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


The  housekeeper  looked  aghast.  “Perhaps,” 
she  suggested,  deferentially,  “you  think  that  the 
foreign  old  gentleman  would  be  likely  to  insist 
on  going  over  the  house  with  the  lady?” 

“Of  course  I think  so,”  said  Mr.  Munder. 
(He  had  thought  nothing  of  the  sort;  his  only 
idea  just  then  being  the  idea  of  asserting  his  own 
supremacy  by  setting  himself  steadily  in  opposi- 
tion to  any  preconceived  arrangements  of  Mrs. 
Pentreath.)  4 4 Then  you  would  take  the  respon- 
sibility of  showing  them  both  over  the  house, 
seeing  that  they  have  both  come  to  the  door  to- 
gether?” asked  the  housekeeper. 

4 4 Of  course  I would,”  answered  the  steward, 
with  the  promptitude  of  resolution  which  distin- 
guishes all  superior  men. 

4 4 Well,  Mr.  Munder,  I am  always  glad  to  be 
guided  by  your  opinion,  and  I will  be  guided  by 
it  now,”  said  Mrs.  Pentreath.  44 But,  as  there 
will  be  two  people  to  look  after — for  I would  not 
trust  the  foreigner  out  of  my  sight  on  any  con- 
sideration whatever — I must  really  beg  you  to 
share  the  trouble  of  showing  them  over  the  house 
along  with  me.  I am  so  excited  and  nervous 
that  I don’t  feel  as  if  I had  all  my  wits  about 
me — I never  was  placed  in  such  a position  as 
this  before — I am  in  the  midst  of  mysteries  that 
I don’t  understand — and,  in  short,  if  I can’t 
count  on  your  assistance,  I won’t  answer  for  it 
that  I shall  not  make  some  mistake.  I should  be 
very  sorry  to  make  a mistake,  not  only  on  my  own 
account,  but — ” Here  the  housekeeper  stopped, 
and  looked  hard  at  Mr.  Munder. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


267 


“Go  on,  ma’am,”  said  Mr.  Munder,  with  cruol 
composure. 

“Not  only  on  my  own  account,”  resumed  Mrs. 
Pentreath,  demurely,  “but  on  yours;  for  Mrs. 
Frankland’s  letter  certainly  casts  the  responsi- 
bility of  conducting  this  delicate  business  on 
your  shoulders  as  well  as  on  mine.” 

Mr.  Munder  recoiled  a few  steps,  turned  red, 
opened  his  lips  indignantly,  hesitated,  and  closed 
them  again.  He  was  fairly  caught  in  a trap  of 
his  own  setting.  He  could  not  retreat  from  the 
responsibility  of  directing  the  housekeeper’s  con- 
duct, the  moment  after  he  had  voluntarily  as- 
sumed it;  and  he  could  not  deny  that  Mrs. 
Frankland’s  letter  positively  and  repeatedly  re- 
ferred to  him  by  name.  There  was  only  one 
way  of  getting  out  of  the  difficulty  with  dignity, 
and  Mr.  Munder  unblushingly  took  that  way  the 
moment  he  had  recovered  self-possession  enough 
to  collect  himself  for  the  effort. 

“I  am  perfectly  amazed,  Mrs.  Pentreath,  ” he 
began,  with  the  gravest  dignity.  “Yes,  I re- 
peat, I am  perfectly  amazed  that  you  should 
think  me  capable  of  leaving  you  to  go  over  the 
house  alone,  under  such  remarkable  circum- 
stances as  those  we  are  now  placed  in.  No, 
ma’am!  whatever  my  other  faults  may  be, 
shrinking  from  my  share  of  responsibility  is  not 
one  of  them.  I don’t  require  to  be  reminded  of 
Mrs.  Frankland’s  letter;  and — no! — I don’t  re- 
quire any  apologies.  I am  quite  ready,  ma’am 
— quite  ready  to  show  the  way  upstairs  when- 
ever you  are.” 


268 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“The  sooner  the  better,  Mr.  Munder — for  there 
is  that  audacious  old  foreigner  actually  chatter- 
ing to  Betsey  now,  as  if  he  had  known  her  all 
bis  life!” 

The  asserton  was  quite  true.  Uncle  Joseph 
was  exercising  his  gift  of  familiarity  on  the 
maid-servant  (who  had  lingered  to  stare  at  the 
strangers,  instead  of  going  back  to  the  kitchen), 
just  as  he  had  already  exercised  it  on  the  old 
lady  passenger  in  the  stage-coach,  and  on  the 
driver  of  the  pony-chaise  which  took  his  niece 
and  himself  to  the  post-town  of  Porthgenna. 
While  the  housekeeper  and  the  steward  were 
holding  their  private  conference,  he  was  keep- 
ing Betsey  in  ecstasies  of  suppressed  giggling  by 
the  odd  questions  that  he  asked  about  the  house, 
and  about  how  she  got  on  with  her  work  in  it. 
His  inquiries  had  naturally  led  from  the  south 
side  of  the  building,  by  which  he  and  his  com- 
panion had  entered,  to  the  west  side,  which  they 
were  shortly  to  explore ; and  thence  round  to  the 
north  side,  which  was  forbidden  ground  to  every- 
body in  the  house.  When  Mrs.  Pentreath  came 
forward  with  the  steward,  she  overheard  this  ex- 
change of  question  and  answer  passing  between 
the  foreigner  and  the  maid : 

“But  tell  me,  Betzee,  my  dear,”  said  Uncle 
Joseph.  “Why  does  nobody  ever  go  into  these 
mouldy  old  rooms?” 

“Because  there’s  a ghost  in  them,”  answered 
Betsey,  with  a burst  of  laughter,  as  if  a series  of 
haunted  rooms  and  a series  of  excellent  jokes 
meant  precisely  the  same  thing. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


269 


“Hold  your  tongue  directly,  and  go  back  to 
the  kitchen,”  cried  Mrs.  Pentreath,  indignantly. 
“The  ignorant  people  about  here,”  she  contin- 
ued, still  pointedly  overlooking  Uncle  Joseph, 
and  addressing  herself  only  to  Sarah,  “tell  ab- 
surd stories  about  some  old  rooms  on  the  unre- 
paired side  of  the  house,  which  have  not  been 
inhabited  for  more  than  half  a century  past — 
absurd  stories  about  a ghost;  and  my  servant  is 
foolish  enough  to  believe  them.” 

“No,  I’m  not,”  said  Betsey,  retiring,  under 
protest,  to  the  lower  regions.  “I  don’t  believe  a 
word  about  the  ghost — at  least  not  in  the  day- 
time.” Adding  that  important  saving  clause  in 
a whisper,  Betsey  unwillingly  withdrew  from 
the  scene. 

Mrs.  Pentreath  observed,  with  some  surprise, 
that  the  mysterious  lady  in  the  quiet  dress  turned 
very  pale  at  the  mention  of  the  ghost  story,  and 
made  no  remark  on  it  whatever.  While  she  was 
still  wondering  what  this  meant,  Mr.  Munder 
emerged  into  dignified  prominence,  and  loftily 
addressed  himself,  not  to  Uncle  Joseph,  and  not 
to  Sarah,  but  to  the  empty  air  between  them. 

“If  you  wish  to  see  the  house,”  he  said,  “you 
will  have  the  goodness  to  follow  me.” 

With  those  words,  Mr.  Munder  turned  sol- 
emnly into  the  passage  that  led  to  the  foot  of  the 
west  staircase,  walking  with  that  peculiar,  slow 
strut  in  which  all  serious-minded  English  people 
indulge  when  they  go  out  to  take  a little  exercise 
on  Sunday.  The  housekeeper,  adapting  her  pace 
with  feminine  pliancy  to  the  pace  of  the  steward, 


270 


WOBKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


walked  the  national  Sabbatarian  Polonaise  by  his 
side,  as  if  she  was  out  with  him  for  a mouthful 
of  fresh  air  between  the  services. 

“As  I am  a living  sinner,  this  going  over  the 
house  is  like  going  to  a funeral!”  whispered 
Uncle  Joseph  to  his  niece.  He  drew  her  arm 
into  his,  and  felt,  as  he  did  so,  that  she  was 
trembling. 

“What  is  the  matter?”  he  asked,  under  his 
breath. 

“Uncle!  there  is  something  unnatural  about 
the  readiness  of  these  people  to  show  us  over 
the  house,”  was  the  faintly  whispered  answer. 
“What  were  they  talking  about  just  now,  out  of 
our  hearing?  Why  did  that  woman  keep  her 
eyes  fixed  so  constantly  on  me?” 

Before  the  old  man  could  answer,  the  house- 
keeper looked  round,  and  begged,  with  the  sever- 
est emphasis,  that  they  would  be  good  enough 
to  follow.  In  less  than  another  minute  they 
were  all  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  west  staircase. 

“Aha!”  cried  Uncle  Joseph,  as  easy  and  talk- 
ative as  ever,  even  in  presence  of  Mr.  Munder 
himself.  “A  fine  big  house,  and  a very  good 
staircase.” 

“We  are  not  accustomed  to  hear  either  the 
house  or  the  staircase  spoken  of  in  these  terms, 
sir,”  said  Mr.  Munder,  resolving  to  nip  the  for- 
eigner’s familiarity  in  the  bud.  “The  Guide  to 
West  Cornwall,  which  you  would  have  done  well 
to  make  yourself  acquainted  with  before  you 
came  here,  describes  Porthgenna  Tower  as  a 
Mansion,  and  uses  the  word  Spacious  in  speaking 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


271 


of  the  west  staircase.  I regret  to  find,  sir,  that 
you  have  not  consulted  the  Guide-book  to  West 
Cornwall.  ” 

“And  why?”  rejoined  the  unabashed  German. 
“What  do  I want  with  a book,  when  I have  got 
you  for  my  guide?  Ah,  dear  sir,  but  you  are 
not  just  to  yourself!  Is  not  a living  guide  like 
you,  who  talks  and  walks  about,  better  for  me 
than  dead  leaves  of  print  and  paper?  Ah,  no, 
no!  I shall  not  hear  another  word —I  shall  not 
hear  you  do  any  more  injustice  to  yourself.” 
Here  Uncle  Joseph  made  another  fantastic  bow, 
looked  up  smiling  into  the  steward’s  face,  and 
shook  his  head  several  times  with  an  air  of 
friendly  reproach. 

Mr.  Munder  felt  paralyzed.  He  could  not 
have  been  treated  with  more  ease  and  indifferent 
familiarity  if  this  obscure  foreign  stranger  had 
been  an  English  duke.  He  had  often  heard  of 
the  climax  of  audacity;  and  here  it  was  visibly 
embodied  in  one  small,  elderly  individual,  who 
did  not  rise  quite  five  feet  from  the  ground  he 
stood  on ! 

While  the  steward  was  swelling  with  a sense 
of  injury  too  large  for  utterance,  the  housekeeper, 
followed  by  Sarah,  was  slowly  ascending  the 
stairs.  Uncle  Joseph,  seeing  them  go  up,  hast- 
ened to  join  his  niece,  and  Mr  Munder,  after 
waiting  a little  while  on  the  mat  to  recover  him- 
self, followed  the  audacious  foreigner  with  the 
intention  of  watching  his  conduct  narrowly,  and 
chastising  his  insolence  at  the  first  opportunity 
with  stinging  words  of  rebuke, 


272 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


The  procession  up  the  stairs  thus  formed  was 
not,  however,  closed  by  the  steward;  it  was  fur- 
ther adorned  and  completed  by  Betsey,  the  serv- 
ant-maid, who  stole  out  of  the  kitchen  to  follow 
the  strange  visitors  over  the  house,  as  closely  as 
she  could  without  attracting  the  notice  of  Mrs. 
Pentreath.  Betsey  had  her  share  of  natural 
human  curiosity  and  love  of  change.  No  such 
event  as  the  arrival  of  strangers  had  ever  before 
enlivened  the  dreary  monotony  of  Porthgenna 
Tower  within  her  experience;  and  she  was  re- 
solved not  to  stay  alone  in  the  kitchen  while 
there  was  a chance  of  hearing  a stray  word  of 
the  conversation,  or  catching  a chance  glimpse 
of  the  proceedings  among  the  company  upstairs. 

In  the  meantime,  the  housekeeper  had  led  the 
way  as  far  as  the  first-floor  landing,  on  either 
side  of  which  the  principal  rooms  in  the  west 
front  were  situated.  Sharpened  by  fear  and  sus- 
picion, Sarah’s  eyes  immediately  detected  the  re- 
pairs which  had  been  effected  in  the  banisters 
and  stairs  of  the  second  flight. 

“You  have  had  workmen  in  the  house?”  she 
said  quickly  to  Mrs.  Pentreath. 

“You  mean  on  the  stairs?”  returned  the  house- 
keeper. “Yes,  we  have  had  workmen  there.” 

“And  nowhere  else?” 

“No.  But  they  are  wanted  in  other  places 
badly  enough.  Even  here,  on  the  best  side  of 
the  house,  half  the  bedrooms  upstairs  are  hardly 
fit  to  sleep  in.  They  were  anything  but  com- 
fortable, as  I have  heard,  even  in  the  late  Mrs. 
Treverton’s  time;  and  since  she  died — ” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


273 


The  housekeeper  stopped  with  a frown  and  a 
look  of  surprise.  The  lady  in  the  quiet  dress, 
instead  of  sustaining  the  reputation  for  good 
manners  which  had  been  conferred  on  her  in 
Mrs.  Frankland’s  letter,  was  guilty  of  the  un- 
pardonable discourtesy  of  turning  away  from 
Mrs.  Pentreath  before  she  had  done  speaking. 
Determined  not  to  allow  herself  to  be  imperti- 
nently silenced  in  that  way,  she  coldly  and  dis- 
tinctly repeated  her  last  words: 

“ And  since  Mrs.  Treverton  died—” 

She  was  interrupted  for  the  second  time.  The 
strange  lady,  turning  quickly  round  again,  con- 
fronted her  with  a very  pale  face  and  a very 
eager  look,  and  asked,  in  the  most  abrupt  man- 
ner, an  utterly  irrelevant  question : 

4 4 Tell  me  about  that  ghost  story,”  she  said, 
“Do  they  say  it  is  the  ghost  of  a man  or  of  a 
woman?” 

“I  was  speaking  of  the  late  Mrs.  Treverton,” 
said  the  housekeeper,  in  her  severest  tones  of  re- 
proof, “and  not  of  the  ghost  story  about  the  north 
rooms.  You  would  have  known  that,  if  you  had 
done  me  the  favor  to  listen  to  what  I said.” 

“I  beg  your  pardon;  I beg  your  pardon  a thou- 
sand times  for  seeming  inattentive!  It  struck 
me  just  then — or,  at  least,  I wanted  to  know — -” 
“If  you  care  to  know  about  anything  so  ab- 
surd,” said  Mrs.  Pentreath,  mollified  by  the  evi- 
dent sincerity  of  the  apology  that  had  been  offered 
to  her,  “the  ghost,  according  to  the  story,  is  the 
ghost  of  a woman.” 

The  strange  lady’s  face  grew  whiter  than  ever; 


274 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


and  she  turned  away  once  more  to  the  open  win- 
dow on  the  landing. 

“How  hot  it  is!”  she  said,  putting  her  head 
out  into  the  air. 

“Hot,  with  a northeast  wind!”  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Pentreath,  in  amazement. 

Here  Uncle  J\  seph  came  forward  with  a polite 
request  to  know  when  they  were  going  to  look 
over  the  rooms.  For  the  last  few  minutes  he 
had  been  asking  all  sorls  of  questions  of  Mr. 
Munder;  and,  having  received  no  answers  which 
were  not  of  the  shortest  and  most  ungracious  kind, 
had  given  up  talking  to  the  steward  in  despair. 

Mrs.  Pentreath  prepared  to  lead  the  way  into 
the  breakfast-room,  library,  and  drawing-room. 
All  three  communicated  with  each  other,  and 
each  room  had  a second  door  opening  on  a long 
passage,  the  entrance  to  which  was  on  the  right- 
hand  side  of  the  first-floor  landing.  Before  lead- 
ing the  way  into  these  rooms,  the  housekeeper 
touched  Sarah  on  the  shoulder  to  intimate  that 
it  was  time  to  be  moving  ou. 

“As  for  the  ghost  story,”  resumed  Mrs.  Pen- 
treath, while  she  opened  the  breakfast  - room 
door,  “you  must  apply  to  the  ignorant  people 
who  believe  in  it,  if  you  want  to  hear  it  all  told. 
Whether  the  ghost  is  an  old  ghost  or  a new  ghost, 
and  why  she  is  supposed  to  walk,  is  more  than 
I can  tell  you.”  In  spite  of  the  housekeeper’s 
affectation  of  indifference  toward  the  popular 
superstition,  she  had  heard  enough  of  the  ghost- 
story  to  frighten  her,  though  she  would  not  con- 
fess it.  Inside  the  house,  or  outside  the  house, 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


275 


nobody  much  less  willing  to  venture  into  the 
north  rooms  alone  could  in  real  truth  have  been 
fouud  than  Mrs.  Pentreath  herself. 

While  the  housekeeper  was  drawing  up  the 
blinds  in  the  breakfast- parlor,  and  while  Mr. 
Munder  was  opening  the  door  that  led  out  of  it 
into  the  library,  Uncle  Joseph  stole  to  his  niece’s 
side  and  spoke  a few  words  of  encouragement  to 
her  in  his  quaint,  kindly  way. 

“ Courage  1”  he  whispered.  “Keep  your  wits 
about  you,  Sarah,  and  catch  your  little  opportu- 
nity whenever  you  can.” 

“My  thoughts!  My  thoughts!”  she  answered 
in  the  same  low  key.  “This  house  rouses  them 
all  against  me.  Oh,  why  did  I ever  venture 
into  it  again!” 

“You  had  better  look  at  the  view  from  the 
window  now,”  said  Mrs.  Pentreath,  after  she 
had  drawn  up  the  blind.  “It  is  very  much 
admired.” 

While  affairs  were  in  this  stage  of  progress 
on  the  first  floor  of  the  house,  Betsey,  who  had 
been  hitherto  stealing  up  by  a stair  at  a time 
from  the  .hall,  and  listening  with  all  her  ears  in 
the  intervals  of  the  ascent,  finding  that  no  sound 
of  voices  now  reached  her,  bethought  herself  of 
returning  to  the  kitchen  again,  and  of  looking 
after  the  housekeeper’s  dinner,  which  was  being 
kept  warm  by  the  fire.  She  descended  to  the 
lower  regions,  wondering  what  part  of  the  house 
the  strangers  would  want  to  see  next,  and  puz- 
zling her  brains  to  find  out  some  excuse  for  at- 
taching herself  to  the  exploring  party. 


276 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


After  the  view  from  the  breakfast-room  win- 
dow had  been  duly  contemplated,  the  library  was 
next  entered.  In  this  room,  Mrs.  Pentreath, 
having  some  leisure  to  look  about  her,  and  em- 
ploying that  leisure  in  observing  the  conduct  of 
the  steward,  arrived  at  the  unpleasant  conviction 
that  Mr.  Munder  was  by  no  means  to  be  depended 
on  to  assist  her  in  the  important  business  of 
watching  the  proceedings  of  the  two  strangers. 
Doubly  stimulated  to  assert  his  own  dignity  by 
the  disrespectfully  easy  manner  in  which  he  had 
been  treated  by  Uncle  Joseph,  the  sole  object  of 
Mr.  Munder’s  ambition  seemed  to  be  to  divest 
himself  as  completely  as  possible  of  the  char- 
acter of  guide,  which  the  unscrupulous  foreigner 
sought  to  confer  on  him.  He  sauntered  heavily 
about  the  rooms,  with  the  air  of  a casual  visitor, 
staring  out  of  window,  peeping  into  books  on 
tables,  frowning  at  himself  in  the  chimney- 
glasses — looking,  in  short,  anywhere  but  where 
he  ought  to  look.  The  housekeeper,  exasperated 
by  this  affectation  of  indifference,  whispered  to 
him  irritably  to  keep  his  eye  on  the  foreigner, 
as  it  was  quite  as  much  as  she  could  do  to  look 
after  the  lady  in  the  quiet  dress. 

“Very  good;  very  good,”  said  Mr.  Munder, 
with  sulky  carelessness.  “And  where  are  you 
going  to  next,  ma’am,  after  we  have  been  into 
the  drawing-room?  Back  again,  through  the 
library,  into  the  breakfast-room?  or  out  at  once 
into  the  passage?  Be  good  enough  to  settle 
which,  as  you  seem  to  be  in  the  way  of  settling 
everything.” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


277 


“Into  the  passage,  to  be  sure,”  answered  Mrs. 
Pentreath,  “to  show  the  next  three  rooms  beyond 
these.” 

Mr.  Munder  sauntered  out  of  the  library, 
through  the  doorway  of  communication,  into 
the  drawing-room,  unlocked  the  door  leading 
into  the  passage — then,  to  the  great  disgust  of 
the  housekeeper,  strolled  to  the  fireplace  and 
looked  at  himself  in  the  glass  over  it,  just  as 
attentively  as  he  had  looked  at  himself  in  the 
library  mirror  hardly  a minute  before. 

“This  is  the  west  drawing-room,”  said  Mrs. 
Pentreath,  calling  to  the  visitors.  “The  carving 
of  the  stone  chimney-piece,”  she  added,  with  the 
mischievous  intention  of  bringing  them  into  the 
closest  proximity  to  the  steward,  “is  considered 
the  finest  thing  in  the  whole  apartment.” 

Driven  from  the  looking-glass  by  this  maneu- 
ver, Mr.  Munder  provokingly  sauntered  to  the 
window  and  looked  out.  Sarah,  still  pale  and 
silent— but  with  a certain  unwonted  resolution 
just  gathering,  as  it  were,  in  the  lines  about  her 
lips — stopped  thoughtfully  by  the  chimney-piece 
when  the  housekeeper  pointed  it  out  to  her.  Uncle 
Joseph,  looking  all  round  the  room  in  his  discur- 
sive manner,  spied,  in  the  furthest  corner  of  it 
from  the  door  that  led  into  the  passage,  a beauti- 
ful maple- wood  table  and  cabinet  of  a very  pecul- 
iar pattern.  His  workmanlike  enthusiasm  was 
instantly  aroused,  and  he  darted  across  the  room 
to  examine  the  make  of  the  cabinet  closely.  The 
table  beneath  projected  a little  way  in  front  of 
it,  and,  of  all  the  objects  in  the  world,  what 


278 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


should  he  see  reposing  on  the  flat  space  cf  the 
projection  but  a magnificent  musical  box  at  least 
three  times  the  size  of  his  own! 

“Aie!  Ai e ! ! Aie!!!”  cried  Uncle  Joseph,  in 
an  ascending  scale  cf  admiration,  which  ended 
at  the  very  top  of  his  voice.  4 ‘Open  him!  set 
him  going!  let  me  hear  what  he  plays!”  He 
stopped  for  want  of  words  to  express  bis  impa- 
tience, and  drummed  with  both  hands  on  the  lid 
of  the  musical  box  in  a burst  of  uncontrollable 
enthusiasm. 

“Mr.  Munder!”  exclaimed  the  housekeeper, 
hurrying  across  the  room  in  great  indignation. 
“Why  don’t  you  look?  why  don’t  you  stop  him? 
He’s  breaking  open  the  musical  box.  Be  quiet, 
sir!  How  dare  you  touch  me?” 

“Set  him  going!  set  him  going!”  reiterated 
Uncle  Joseph,  dropping  Mrs.  Fentreath’s  arm, 
which  he  had  seized  in  his  agitation.  “Look 
here ! this  by  my  side  is  a music  box,  too ! Set 
him  going!  Does  he  play  Mozart?  He  is  three 
times  bigger  than  ever  I saw!  See!  see!  this 
box  of  mine — this  tiny  bit  of  box  that  looks  noth- 
ing by  the  side  of  yours — it  was  given  to  my  own 
brother  by  the  king  of  all  music-composers  that 
ever  lived,  by  the  divine  Mozart  himself.  Set 
the  big  box  going,  and  you  shall  hear  the  little 
baby-box  pipe  after ! Ah,  dear  and  good  madam, 
if  you  love  me — ” 

“Sir!!!”  exclaimed  the  housekeeper,  redden- 
ing with  virtuous  indignation  to  the  very  roots 
of  her  hair. 

“What  do  you  mean,  sir,  by  addressing  such 


THE  HEAD  SECRET. 


279 


outrageous  language  as  that  to  a respectable 
female?”  inquired  Mr.  Munder,  approaching  to 
the  rescue.  “Do  you  think  we  want  your  for- 
eign noises,  and  your  foreign  morals,  and  your 
foreign  profanity  here?  Yes,  sir!  profanity. 
Any  man  who  calls  any  human  individual, 
whether  musical  or  otherwise,  ‘divine/  is  a pro- 
fane man.  Who  are  you,  you  extremely  auda- 
cious person?  Are  you  an  infidel?” 

Before  Uncle  Joseph  could  say  a word  in  vin- 
dication of  his  principles,  before  Mr.  Munder 
could  relieve  himself  of  any  more  indignation, 
they  were  both  startled  into  momentary  silence 
by  an  exclamation  of  alarm  from  the  housekeeper. 

“Where  is  she?”  cried  Mrs.  Pentreath,  stand- 
ing in  the  middle  of  the  drawing-room,  and  look- 
ing with  bewildered  eyes  all  around  her. 

The  lady  in  the  quiet  dress  had  vanished. 

She  was  not  in  the  library,  not  in  the  break- 
fast-room, not  in  the  passage  outside.  After 
searching  in  those  three  places,  the  housekeeper 
came  back  to  Mr.  Munder  with  a look  of  down- 
right terror  in  her  face,  and  stood  staring  at  him 
for  a moment  perfectly  helpless  and  perfectly  si- 
lent. As  soon  as  she  recovered  herself  she  turned 
fiercely  on  Uncle  Joseph. 

“Where  is  she?  I insist  on  knowing  what 
has  become  of  her!  You  cunning,  wicked,  im- 
pudent old  man!  where  is*  she?”  cried  Mrs. 
Pentreath,  with  no  color  in  her  cheeks  and  no 
mercy  in  her  eyes. 

“1  suppose  she  is  looking  about  the  house  by 
herself,”  said  Uncle  Joseph.  “We  shall  find 


280 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


her  surely  as  we  take  our  walks  through  the 
other  rooms.”  Simple  as  he  was,  the  old  man 
had,  nevertheless,  acuteness  enough  to  perceive 
that  he  had  accidentally  rendered  the  very  service 
to  his  niece  of  which  she  stood  in  need.  If  he 
had  been  the  most  artful  of  mankind,  he  could 
have  devised  no  better  means  of  diverting  Mrs. 
Pentreath’s  attention  from  Sarah  to  himself  than 
the  very  means  which  he  had  just  used  in  per- 
fect innocence,  at  the  very  moment  when  his 
thoughts  were  furthest  away  from  the  real  ob- 
ject with  which  he  and  his  niece  had  entered 
the  house.  “So!  so!”  thought  Uncle  Joseph  to 
himself,  “while  these  two  angry  people  were 
scolding  me  for  nothing,  Sarah  has  slipped  away 
to  the  room  where  the  letter  is.  Good ! I have 
only  to  wait  till  she  comes  back,  and  to  let  the 
two  angry  people  go  on  scolding  me  as  long  as 
they  please.” 

“What  are  we  to  do?  Mr.  Munder!  what  on 
earth  are  we  to  do?”  asked  the  housekeeper. 
“We  can’t  waste  the  precious  minutes  staring 
at  each  other  here.  This  woman  must  be  found. 
Stop!  she  asked  questions  about  the  stairs — she 
looked  up  at  the  second  floor  the  moment  we  got 
on  the  landing.  Mr.  Munder!  wait  here,  and 
don’t  let  that  foreigner  out  of  your  sight  for  a 
moment.  Wait  here  while  I run  up  and  look 
into  the  second-floor  passage.  All  the  bedroom 
doors  are  locked — 1 defy  her  to  hide  herself  if 
she  has  gone  up  there.”  With  those  words,  the 
housekeeper  ran  out  of  the  drawing-room,  and 
breathlessly  ascended  the  second  flight  of  stairs. 


THE  BEAD  SECRET. 


281 


While  Mrs.  Pentreath  was  searching  on  the 
west  side  of  the  house  Sarah  was  hurrying,  at 
the  top  of  her  speed,  along  the  lonely  passages 
that  led  to  the  north  rooms. 

Terrified  into  decisive  action  by  the  desperate 
nature  of  the  situation,  she  had  slipped  out  of 
the  drawing-room  into  the  passage  the  instant 
she  saw  Mrs.  Pentreath's  back  turned  on  her. 
Without  stopping  to  think,  without  attempting 
to  compose  herself,  she  ran  down  the  stairs  of 
the  first  floor,  and  made  straight  for  the  house- 
keeper’s room.  She  had  no  excuses  ready,  if 
she  had  found  anybody  there,  or  if  she  had  met 
anybody  on  the  way.  She  had  formed  no  plan 
where  to  seek  for  them  next,  if  the  keys  of  the 
north  rooms  were  not  hanging  in  the  place  where 
she  still  expected  to  find  them.  Her  mind  was 
lost  in  confusion,  her  temples  throbbed  as  if  they 
would  burst  with  the  heat  at  her  brain.  The 
one  blind,  wild,  headlong  purpose  of  getting  into 
the  Myrtle  Room  drove  her  on,  gave  unnatural 
swiftness  to  her  trembling  feet,  unnatural  strength 
to  her  shaking  hands,  unnatural  courage  to  her 
sinking  heart. 

She  ran  into  the  housekeeper’s  room,  without 
even  the  ordinary  caution  of  waiting  for  a mo- 
ment to  listen  outside  the  door.  No  one  was 
there.  One  glance  at  the  well-remembered  nail 
in  the  wall  showed  her  the  keys  still  hanging 
to  it  in  a bunch,  as  they  had  hung  in  the  long- 
past  time.  She  had  them  in  her  possession  in  a 
moment;  aud  was  away  again,  along  the  soli- 
tary passages  that  led  to  the  north  rooms,  thread- 


282  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

ing  their  turnings  and  windings  as  if  she  had  left 
them  but  the  day  before;  never  pausing  to  listen 
or  to  look  behind  her,  never  slackening  her  speed 
till  she  was  at  the  top  of  the  back  staircase,  and 
had  her  hand  on  the  locked  door  that  led  into  the 
north  hall. 

As  she  turned  over  the  bunch  to  find  the  first 
key  that  was  required,  she  discovered — what  her 
hurry  had  hitherto  prevented  her  from  noticing 
— the  numbered  labels  which  the  builder  had 
methodically  attached  to  all  the  keys  when  he 
had  been  sent  to  Porthgenna  by  Mr.  Frankland 
to  survey  the  house.  At  the  first  sight  of  them, 
her  searching  hands  paused  in  their  work  instan- 
taneously, and  she  shivered  all  over,  as  if  a sud- 
den chill  had  struck  her. 

If  she  had  been  less  violently  agitated,  the 
discovery  of  the  new  labels  and  the  suspicions 
to  which  the  sight  of  them  instantly  gave  rise 
would,  in  all  probability,  have  checked  her  further 
progress.  But  the  confusion  of  her  mind  was 
now  too  great  to  allow  her  to  piece  together  even 
the  veriest  fragments  of  thoughts.  Vaguely  con- 
scious of  a new  terror,  of  a sharpened  distrust 
that  doubled  and  trebled  the  headlong  impatience 
which  had  driven  her  on  thus  far,  she  desperately 
resumed  her  search  through  the  bunch  of  keys. 

One  of  them  had  no  label;  it  was  larger  than 
the  rest — it  was  the  key  that  fitted  the  door  of 
communication  before  which  she  stood.  She 
turned  it  in  the  rusty  lock  with  a strength 
which,  at  any  other  time,  she  would  have  been 
utterly  incapable  of  exerting;  she  opened  the 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


283 


door  with  a blow  of  her  hand,  which  burst  it 
away  at  one  stroke  from  the  jambs  to  which  it 
stuck.  Panting  for  breath,  she  flew  across  the 
forsaken  north  hall,  without  stopping  for  one 
second  to  push  the  door  to  behind  her.  The  creep- 
ing creatures,  the  noisome  house- reptiles  that 
possessed  the  place,  crawled  away,  shadow-like, 
on  either  side  of  her  toward  the  walls.  She  never 
noticed  them,  never  turned  away  for  them.  Across 
the  hall,  and  up  the  stairs  at  the  end  of  it,  she 
ran,  till  she  gained  the  open  landing  at  the  top 
— and  there  she  suddenly  checked  herself  in  front 
of  the  first  door. 

The  first  door  of  the  long  range  of  rooms  that 
opened  on  the  landing;  the  door  that  fronted  the 
topmost  of  the  flight  of  stairs,  She  stopped;  she 
looked  at  it — it  was  not  the  door  she  had  come 
to  open;  and  yet  she  could  not  tear  herself  away 
from  it.  Scrawled  on  the  panel  in  white  chalk 
was  the  figure — “I.”  And  when  she  looked 
down  at  the  bunch  of  keys  in  her  hands,  there 
was  the  figure  “I.”  on  a label,  answering  to  it. 

She  tried  to  think,  to  follow  out  any  one  of  all 
the  thronging  suspicions  that  beset  her  to  the 
conclusion  at  which  it  might  point.  The  effort 
was  useless;  her  mind  was  gone;  her  bodily 
senses  of  seeing  and  hearing — senses  which  had 
now  become  painfully  and  incomprehensibly 
sharpened— seemed  to  be  the  sole  relics  of  in- 
telligence that  she  had  left  to  guide  her.  She 
put  her  hand  over  her  eyes,  and  waited  a little 
so,  and  then  went  on  slowly  along  the  landing, 
looking  at  the  doors. 


284 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


No.  “II.,”  No.  “III.,”  No.  “IV.,”  traced  on 
the  panels  in  the  same  white  chalk,  and  answer- 
ing to  the  numbered  labels  on  the  keys,  the  fig- 
ures on  which  were  written  in  ink.  No.  “IV.” 
the  middle  room  of  the  first  floor  range  of 
eight.  She  stopped  there  again,  trembling  from 
head  to  foot.  It  was  the  door  of  the  Myrtle 
Room. 

Did  the  chalked  numbers  stop  there?  She 
looked  on  down  the  landing.  No.  The  four 
doors  remaining  were  regularly  numbered  on 
to  “VIII.” 

She  came  back  again  to  the  door  of  the  Myrtle 
Room,  sought  out  the  key  labeled  with  the  fig- 
ure “IV.” — hesitated— and  looked  back  distrust- 
fully over  the  deserted  hall. 

The  canvases  of  the  old  family  pictures,  which 
she  had  seen  bulging  out  of  their  frames  in  the 
past  time  when  she  hid  the  letter,  had,  for  the 
most  part,  rotted  away  from  them  now,  and  lay 
in  great  black  ragged  strips  on  the  floor  of  the 
hall.  Islands  and  continents  of  damp  spread 
like  the  map  of  some  strange  region  over  the 
lofty  vaulted  ceiling.  Cobwebs,  heavy  with 
dust,  hung  down  in  festoons  from  broken  cor- 
nices. Dirt  stains  lay  on  the  stone  pavement, 
like  gross  reflections  of  the  damp  stains  on  the 
ceiling.  The  broad  flight  of  stairs  leading  up 
to  the  open  landing  before  the  rooms  of  the  first 
floor  had  sunk  down  bodily  toward  one  side.  The 
banisters  which  protected  the  outer  edge  of  the 
landing  were  broken  away  into  ragged  gaps. 
The  light  of  day  was  stained,  the  air  of  heaven 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


285 


was  stilled,  the  sounds  of  earth  were  silenced  in 
the  north  hall. 

Silenced?  Were  all  sounds  silenced?  Or  was 
there  something  stirring  that  just  touched  the 
sense  of  hearing,  that  just  deepened  the  dismal 
stillness,  and  no  more? 

Sarah  listened,  keeping  her  face  still  set  to- 
ward the  hall — listened,  and  heard  a faint  sound 
behind  her.  Was  it  outside  the  door  on  which 
her  back  was  turned?  Or  was  it  inside — in  the 
Myrtle  Room. 

Inside.  With  the  first  conviction  of  that,  all 
thought,  all  sensation  left  her.  She  forgot  the 
suspicious  numbering  of  the  doors;  she  became 
insensible  to  the  lapse  of  time,  unconscious  of 
the  risk  of  discovery.  All  exercise  of  her  other 
faculties  was  now  merged  in  the  exercise  of  the 
one  faculty  of  listening. 

It  was  a still,  faint,  stealthily  rustling  sound ; 
and  it  moved  to  and  fro  at  intervals,  to  and  fro 
softly,  now  at  one  end,  now  at  the  other  of  the 
Myrtle  Room.  There  were  moments  when  it 
grew  suddenly  distinct — * other  moments  when 
it  died  away  in  gradations  too  light  to  fellow. 
Sometimes  it  seemed  to  sweep  over  1 he  floor  at  a 
bound — sometimes  it  crept  with  slow,  continu- 
ous rustlings  that  just  wavered  on  the  verge  of 
absolute  silence. 

Her  feet  still  rooted  to  the  spot  on  which  she 
stood,  Sarah  turned  her  head  slowly,  inch  by 
inch,  toward  the  door  of  the  Myrtle  Room.  A 
moment  before,  while  she  was  as  yet  unconscious 
of  the  faint  sound  moving  to  and  fro  within  it, 


286 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


she  had  been  drawing  her  breath  heavily  and 
quickly.  She  might  have  been  dead  now,  her 
bosom  was  so  still,  her  breathing  so  noiseless. 
The  same  mysterious  change  came  over  her  face 
which  had  altered  it  when  the  darkness  began 
to  gather  in  the  little  parlor  at  Truro.  The  same 
fearful  look  of  inquiry  which  she  had  then  fixed 
on  the  vacant  corner  of  the  room  was  in  her  eyes 
now,  as  they  slowly  turned  on  the  door. 

“Mistress!”  she  whispered.  “Am  I- too  late? 
Are  you  there  before  me?” 

The  stealthily  rustling  sound  inside  paused — 
renewed  itself — died  away  again  faintly;  away 
at  the  lower  end  of  the  room. 

Her  eyes  still  remained  fixed  on  the  Myrtle 
Room,  strained,  and  opened  wider  and  wider — 
opened  as  if  they  would  look  through  the  very 
door  itself — opened  as  if  they  were  watching  for 
the  opaque  wood  to  turn  transparent  and  show 
what  was  behind  it. 

“Over  the  lonesome  floor,  over  the  lonesome 
floor — how  light  it  moves!”  she  whispered  again. 
“Mistress!  does  the  black  dress  I made  for  you 
rustle  no  louder  than  that?” 

The  sound  stopped  again — then  suddenly  ad- 
vanced at  one  stealthy  sweep  close  to  the  inside 
of  the  door. 

If  she  could  have  moved  at  that  moment;  if 
she  could  have  looked  down  to  the  line  of  open 
space  between  the  bottom  of  the  door  and  the 
flooring  below,  when  the  faintly  rustling  sound 
came  nearest  to  her,  she  might  have  seen  the 
insignificant  cause  that  produced  it  lying  self- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


287 


betrayed  under  the  door,  partly  outside,  partly 
inside,  in  the  shape  of  a fragment  of  faded  red 
paper  from  the  wall  of  the  Myrtle  Room.  Time 
and  damp  had  loosened  the  paper  all  round  the 
apartment.  Two  or  three  yards  of  it  had  been 
torn  off  by  the  builder  while  he  was  examining 
the  walls— sometimes  in  large  pieces,  sometimes 
in  small  pieces,  just  as  it  happened  to  come  away 
— and  had  been  thrown  down  by  him  on  the  bare, 
boarded  floor,  to  become  the  sport  of  the  wind, 
whenever  it  happened  to  blow  through  the  bro- 
ken panes  of  glass  in  the  window.  If  she  had 
only  moved!  If  she  had  only  looked  down  for 
one  little  second  of  time! 

She  was  past  moving  and  past  looking:  the 
paroxysm  of  superstitious  horror  that  possessed 
her  held  her  still  in  every  limb  and  every  feature. 
She  never  started,  she  uttered  no  cry,  when  the 
rustling  noise  came  nearest.  The  one  outward 
sign  which  showed  how  the  terror  of  its  approach 
shook  her  to  the  very  soul  expressed  itself  only  in 
the  changed  action  of  her  right  hand,  in  which 
she  still  held  the  keys.  At  the  instant  when  the 
wind  wafted  the  fragment  of  paper  closest  to  the 
door,  her  fingers  lost  their  power  of  contraction, 
and  became  as  nerveless  and  helpless  as  if  she 
had  fainted.  The  heavy  bunch  of  keys  slipped 
from  her  suddenly  loosened  grasp,  dropped  at 
her  side  cn  the  outer  edge  of  the  landing,  rolled 
off  through  a gap  in  the  broken  banister,  and  fell  on 
the  stone  pavement  below,  with  a crash  which  made 
the  sleeping  echoes  shriek  again,  as  if  they  were 
sentient  beings  writhing  under  the  torture  of  sound. 


288  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

The  crash  of  the  falling  keys,  ringing  and 
ringing  again  through  the  stillness,  woke  her,  as 
it  were,  to  instant  consciousness  of  present  events 
and  present  perils.  She  started,  staggered  back- 
ward, and  raised  both  her  hands  wildly  to  her 
head — paused  so  for  a few  seconds — then  made 
for  the  top  of  the  stairs  with  the  purpose  of  de- 
scending into  the  hall  to  recover  the  keys. 

Before  she  had  advanced  three  paces  the  shrill 
sound  of  a woman’s  scream  came  from  the  door 
of  communication  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  hall. 
The  scream  was  twice  repeated  at  a greater  dis- 
tance off,  and  was  followed  by  a confused  noise 
of  rapidly  advancing  voices  and  footsteps. 

She  staggered  desperately  a few  paces  further, 
and  reached  the  first  of  the  row  of  doors  that 
opened  on  the  landing.  There  nature  sank  ex- 
hausted; her  knees  gave  way  under  her— her 
breath,  her  sight,  her  hearing  all  seemed  to  fail 
her  together  at  the  same  instant — and  she  dropped 
down  senseless  on  the  floor  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs. 


CHAPTER  IY. 

MR.  MUNDER  ON  THE  SEAT  OF  JUDGMENT. 

The  murmuring  voices  and  the  hurrying  foot 
steps  came  nearer  and  nearer,  then  stopped  alto- 
gether. After  an  interval  of  silence,  one  voice 
called  out  loudly,  “Sarah!  Sarah!  where  are 
you?”  and  the  next  instant  Uncle  Joseph  ap- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


289 


peared  alone  in  the  doorway  that  led  into  the 
north  hall,  looking  eagerly  all  round  him. 

At  first  the  prostrate  figure  on  the  landing  at 
the  head  of  the  stairs  escaped  his  view.  But  the 
second  time  he  looked  in  that  direction  the  dark 
dress,  and  the  arm  that  lay  just  over  the  edge  of 
the  top  stair,  caught  his  eye.  With  a loud  cry 
of  terror  and  recognition,  he  flew  across  the  hall 
and  ascended  the  stairs.  Just  as  he  was  kneel- 
ing by  Sarah’s  side,  and  raising  her  head  on  his 
arm,  the  steward,  the  housekeeper,  and  the  maid, 
all  three  crowded  together  after  him  into  the 
doorway. 

“Water!”  shouted  the  old  man,  gesticulating 
at  them  wildly  with  his  disengaged  hand.  “She 
is  here — she  has  fallen  down — she  is  in  a faint ! 
Water!  water!” 

Mr.  Munder  looked  at  Mrs.  Pentreath,  Mrs. 
Pentreath  looked  at  Betsey,  Betsey  looked  at  the 
ground.  All  three  stood  stock-still;  all  three 
seemed  equally  incapable  of  walking  across  the 
ball.  If  the  science  of  physiognomy  be  not  an 
entire  delusion,  the  cause  of  this  amazing  una- 
nimity was  legibly  written  in  their  faces;  in 
other  words,  they  all  three  looked  equally  afraid 
of  the  ghost. 

“Water,  I say!  Water!”  reiterated  Uncle 
Joseph,  shaking  his  fist  at  them.  “She  is  in 
a faint!  Are  you  three  at  the  door  there,  and 
not  one  heart  of  mercy  among  you?  Water! 
water!  water!  Must  I scream  myself  into  fits 
before  I can  make  you  hear?” 

“I’ll  get  the  water,  ma’am,”  said  Betsey,  “if 
J — Vol.  16 


290 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


you  or  Mr.  Munder  will  please  to  take  it  from 
here  to  the  top  of  the  stairs.” 

She  ran  to  the  kitchen,  and  came  back  with  a 
glass  of  water,  which  she  offered,  with  a respect- 
ful courtesy,  first  to  the  housekeeper,  and  then  to 
the  steward. 

“How  dare  you  ask  us  to  carry  things  for 
you?”  said  Mrs.  Pentreath,  backing  out  of  the 
doorway. 

4 ‘Yes!  how  dare  you  ask  us?”  added  Mr. 
Munder,  backing  after  Mrs.  Pentreath. 

“Water!”  shouted  the  old  man  for  the  third 
time.  He  drew  his  niece  backward  a little,  so 
that  she  could  be  supported  against  the  wall  be- 
hind her.  44  Water!  or  I trample  down  this  dun- 
geon of  a place  about  your  ears!”  he  shouted, 
stamping  with  impatience  and  rage. 

44If  you  please,  sir,  are  you  sure  it’s  really  the 
lady  who  is  up  there?”  asked  Betsey,  advancing 
a few  paces  tremulously  with  the  glass  of  water. 

44 Am  I sure?”  exclaimed  Uncle  Joseph,  de- 
scending the  stairs  to  meet  her.  44  What  fool’s 
question  is  this?  Who  should  it  be?” 

“The  ghost,  sir,”  said  Betsey,  advancing  more 
and  more  slowly.  “The  ghost  of  the  north 
rooms,” 

Uncle  Joseph  met  her  a few  yards  in  advance 
of  the  foot  of  the  stairs,  took  the  glass  of  water 
frrm  her  with  a gesture  of  contempt,  and  has- 
tened back  to  his  niece.  As  Betsey  turned  to 
effect  her  retreat,  the  bunch  of  keys  lying  on  the 
pavement  below  the  landing  caught  her  eye. 
After  a little  hesitation  she  mustered  courage 


THE  DEAD  SECRET.  291 

enough  to  pick  them  lip,  and  then  ran  with  them 
out  of  the  hall  as  fast  as  her  feet  could  carry  her. 

Meanwhile  Uncle  Joseph  was  moistening  his 
niece’s  lips  with  the  water,  and  sprinkling  it 
over  her  forehead.  After  a while  her  breath 
began  to  come  and  go  slowly,  in  faint  sighs,  the 
muscles  of  her  face  moved  a little,  and  she  feebly 
opened  her  eyes.  They  fixed  affrightedly  on  the 
old  man,  without  any  expression  of  recognition. 
He  made  her  drink  a little  water,  and  spoke  to 
her  gently,  and  so  brought  her  back  at  last  to 
herself.  Her  first  words  were,  “Don’t  leave 
me.”  Her  first  action,  when  she  was  able  to 
move,  was  the  action  of  crouching  closer  to  him. 

“ No  fear,  my  child,”  he  said,  soothingly;  “I 
will  keep  by  you.  Tell  me,  Sarah,  what  has 
made  you  faint?  What  has  frightened  you  so?” 

“Oh,  don’t- ask  me!  For  God’s  sake,  don’t 
ask  me!” 

“There,  there!  I shall  say  nothing,  then. 
Another  mouthful  of  water?  A little  mouth- 
ful more?” 

“Help  me  up,  uncle;  help  me  to  try  if  I can 
stand.” 

“Not  yet — not  quite  yet;  patience  for  a little 
longer.” 

“Oh,  help  me!  help  me!  1 want  to  get  away 
from  the  sight  of  those  doors.  If  I can  only  go 
as  far  as  the  bottom  of  the  stairs  I shall  be 
better.” 

“So,  so,”  said  Uncle  Joseph,  assisting  her  to 
rise.  “Wait  now,  and  feel  your  feet  on  the 
ground.  Lean  on  me,  lean  hard,  lean  heavy. 


292 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Though  I am  only  a light  and  a little  man,  I am 
solid  as  a rock.  Have  you  been  into  the  room?” 
he  added,  in  a whisper.  “Have  you  got  the 
letter?” 

She  sighed  bitterly,  and  laid  her  head  on  his 
shoulder  with  a weary  despair. 

“ Why,  Sarah!  Sarah!”  heexclaimed.  “Have 
you  been  all  this  time  away  and  not  got  into  the 
room  yet?” 

She  raised  her  head  as  suddenly  as  she  had 
laid  it  down,  shuddered,  and  tried  feebly  to  draw 
him  toward  the  stairs.  “I  shall  never  see  the 
Myrtle  Room  again — never,  never,  never  more!” 
she  said.  “Let  us  go;  I can  walk;  I am  strong 
now.  Uncle  Joseph,  if  you  love  me,  take  me 
away  from  this  house;  away  anywhere,  so  long 
as  we  are  in  the  free  air  and  the  daylight  again; 
anywhere,  so  long  as  we  are  out  of  sight  of 
Porthgenna  Tower.” 

Elevating  his  eyebrows  in  astonishment,  but 
considerately  refraining  from  asking  any  more 
questions,  Uncle  Joseph  assisted  his  niece  to  de- 
scend the  stairs.  She  was  still  so  weak  that  she 
was  obliged  to  pause  on  gaining  the  bottom  of 
them  to  recover  her  strength.  Seeing  this,  and 
feeling,  as  he  led  her  afterward  across  the  hall, 
that  she  leaned  more  and  more  heavily  on  his 
arm  at  every  fresh  step,  the  old  man,  on  arriving 
within  speaking  distance  of  Mr.  Munder  and 
Mrs.  Pentreath,  asked  the  housekeeper  if  she 
possessed  any  restorative  drops  which  she  would 
allow  him  to  administer  to  his  niece. 

Mrs.  Pentreath’s  reply  in  the  affirmative, 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


293 


though  not  very  graciously  spoken,  was  accom- 
panied by  an  alacrity  of  action  which  showed 
that  she  was  heartily  rejoiced  to  take  the  first 
fair  excuse  for  returning  to  the  inhabited  quarter 
of  the  house.  Muttering  something  about  show- 
ing the  way  to  the  place  where  the  medicine- 
chest  was  kept,  she  immediately  retraced  her 
steps  along  the  passage  to  her  own  room;  while 
Uncle  Joseph,  disregarding  all  Sarah’s  whis- 
pered assurances  that  she  was  well  enough  to 
depart  without  another  moment  of  delay,  fol- 
lowed her  silently,  leading  his  niece. 

Mr.  Munder,  shaking  his  head,  and  looking 
wofully  disconcerted,  waited  behind  to  lock  the 
door  of  communication.  When  he  had  done 
this,  and  had  given  the  keys  to  Betsey  to  carry 
back  to  their  appointed  place,  he,,  in  his  turn, 
retired  from  the  scene  at  a pace  indecorously  ap- 
proaching to  something  like  a run.  On  getting 
well  away  from  the  north  hall,  however,  he  re- 
gained his  self-possession  wonderfully.  He  ab- 
ruptly slackened  his  pace,  collected  his  scattered 
wits,  and  reflected  a little,  apparently  with  per- 
fect satisfaction  to  himself;  for  when  he  entered 
the  housekeeper’s  room  he  had  quite  recovered  his 
usual  complacent  solemnity  of  look  and  manner. 
Like  the  vast  majority  of  densely  stupid  men, 
he  felt  intense  pleasure  in  hearing  himself  talk, 
and  he  now  discerned  such  an  opportunity  of  in- 
dulging in  that  luxury,  after  the  events  that  had 
just  happened  in  the  house,  as  he  seldom  en- 
joyed. There  is  only  one  kind  of  speaker  who 
is  quite  certain  never  to  break  down  under  any 


294 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


stress  of  circumstances — the  man  whose  capabil- 
ity of  talking  does  ’not  include  any  dangerous 
underlying  capacity  for  knowing  what  he  means. 
Among  this  favored  order  of  natural  orators, 
Mr.  Munder  occupied  a prominent  rank — and  he 
was  now  vindictively  resolved  to  exercise  his 
abilities  on  the  two  strangers,  under  pretense  of 
asking  for  an  explanation  of  their  conduct,  be- 
fore he  could  suffer  them  to  quit  the  house. 

On  entering  the  room,  he  found  TJncle  Joseph 
seated  with  his  niece  at  the  lower  end  of  it,  en- 
gaged in  dropping  some  sal  volatile  into  a glass 
of  water.  At  the  upper  end  stood  the  house- 
keeper with  an  open  medicine-chest  on  the  table 
before  her.  To  this  part  of  the  room.  Mr.  Mun- 
der slowly  advanced,  with  a portentous  counte- 
nance; drew. an  arm-chair  up  to  the  table;  sat 
himself  down  in  it,  with  extreme  deliberation 
and  care  in  the  matter  of  settling  his  coat-tails; 
and  immediately  became,  to  all  outward  appear- 
ance, the  model  of  a Lord  Chief  Justice  in  plain 
clothes. 

Mrs.  Pentreath,  conscious  from  these  prepara- 
tions that  something  extraordinary  was  about  to 
happen,  seated  herself  a little  behind  the  stew- 
ard. Betsey  restored  the  keys  to  their  place  on 
the  nail  in  the  wall,  and  was  about  to  retiro 
modestly  to  her  proper  kitchen  sphere,  when  she 
was  stopped  by  Mr.  Munder. 

“Wait,  if  you  please,”  said  the  steward;  “I 
shall  have  occasion  to  call  on  you  presently, 
young  woman,  to  make  a plain  statement.” 

Obedient  Betsey  waited  near  the  door,  terrified 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


295 


by  the  idea  that  she  must  have  done  something 
wrong,  and  that  the  steward  was  armed  with  in- 
scrutable legal  power  to  try,  sentence,  and  pun- 
ish her  for  the  offense  on  the  spot. 

“Now,  sir,”  said  Mr.  Munder,  addressing 
Uncle  Joseph  as  if  he  was  the  Speaker  of  the 
House  of  Commons,  “if  you  have  done  with 
that  sal  volatile,  and  if  the  person  by  your  side 
has  sufficiently  recovered  her  senses  to  listen,  I 
should  wish  to  say  a word  or  two  to  both  of 
you.” 

At  this  exordium,  Sarah  tried  affrightedly  to 
rise  from  her  chair;  but  her  uncle  caught  her  by 
the  hand,  and  pressed  her  back  in  it. 

“Wait  and  rest,”  he  whispered.  “I  shall  take 
all  the  scolding  on  my  own  shoulder,  and  do  all 
the  talking  with  my  own  t ngue.  As  soon  as 
you  are  fit  to  walk  again,  I promise  you  this: 
whether  the  big  man  has  said  his  word  or  two, 
or  has  not  said  it,  we  will  quietly  get  up  and  go 
our  ways  out  of  the  house.” 

“Up  to  the  present  moment,”  said  Mr.  Mun- 
der, “I  have  refrained  from  expressing  an  opin- 
ion. The  time  has  now  come  when,  holding  a 
position  of  trust  as  I do  in  this  establishment, 
and  being  accountable,  and  indeed  responsible, 
as  I am,  for  what  takes  place  in  it,  and  feeling, 
as  I must,  that  things  cannot  be  allowed  or  even 
permitted  to  rest  as  they  are— it  is  my  duty  to 
say  that  I think  your  conduct  is  very  extraordi- 
nary.” Directing  this  forcible  conclusi  n to  his 
sentence  straight  at  Sarah,  Mr.  Munder  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  quite  full  of  words,  and  quite 


296 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


empty  of  meaning,  to  collect  himself  comfortably 
for  his  next  effort. 

“My  only  desire,”  he  resumed,  with  a plaintive 
impartiality,  “is  to  act  fairly  by  all  parties.  I 
don’t  wish  to  frighten  anybody,  or  to  startle 
anybody,  or  even  to  terrify  anybody.  I wish  to 
unravel,  or,  if  you  please,  to  make  out,  what  I 
may  term,  with  perfect  propriety — events.  And 
when  I have  done  that,  I should  wish  to  put  it  to 
you,  ma’am,  and  to  you,  sir,  whether — I say,  I 
should  wish  to  put  it  to  you  both,  calmly,  and  im- 
partially, and  politely,  and  plainly,  and  smoothly 
— and  when  I say  smoothly,  I mean  quietly — 
whether  you  are  not  both  of  you  bound  to  ex- 
plain yourselves.” 

Mr.  Munder  paused,  to  let  that  last  irresistible 
appeal  work  its  way  to  the  consciences  of  the  per- 
sons whom  he  addressed.  The  housekeeper  took 
advantage  of  the  silence  to  cough,  as  congrega- 
tions cough  just  before  the  sermon,  apparently 
on  the  principle  of  getting  rid  of  bodily  infirmi- 
ties beforehand,  in  order  to  give  the  mind  free 
play  for  undisturbed  intellectual  enjoyment. 
Betsey,  following  Mrs.  Pentreath’s  lead,  in- 
dulged in  a cough  on  her  own  account — of  the 
faint,  distrustful  sort.  Uncle  Joseph  sat  per- 
fectly easy  and  undismayed,  still  holding  his 
niece’s  hand  in  his,  and  giving  it  a little  squeeze, 
from  time  to  time,  when  the  steward’s  oratory 
became  particularly  involved  and  impressive. 
Sarah  never  moved,  never  looked  up,  never  lost 
the  expression  of  terrified  restraint  which  had 
taken  possession  of  her  face  from  the  first 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


297 


moment  when  she  entered  the  housekeeper’s 
room. 

“Now,  what  are  the  facts,  and  circumstances, 
and  events?”  proceeded  Mr.  Munder,  leaning- 
back  in  his  chair,  in  calm  enjoyment  of  the 
sound  of  his  own  voice.  “You,  ma’am,  and 
you,  sir,  ring  at  the  bell  of  the  door  of  this 
Mansion”  (here  he  looked  hard  at  Uncle  Joseph, 
as  much  as  to  say,  “I  don’t  give  up  that  point 
about  the  house  being  a Mansion,  you  see,  even 
on  the  judgment-seat”)— “you  are  let  in,  or, 
rather,  admitted.  You,  sir,  assert  that  you 
wish  to  inspect  the  Mansion  (you  say  ‘see  the 
house,’  but,  being  a foreigner,  we  are  not  sur- 
prised at  your  making  a little  mistake  of  that 
sort);  you,  ma’am,  coincide,  and  even  agree,  in 
that  request.  What  follows?  You  are  shown 
over  the  Mansion.  It  is  not  usual  to  show  stran- 
gers over  it,  but  we  happen  to  have  certain 
reasons — ” 

Sarah  started.  “What  reasons?”  she  asked, 
looking  up  quickly. 

Uncle  Joseph  felt  her  hand  turn  cold,  and 
tremble  in  his.  “Hush!  hush!”  he  said,  “leave 
the  talking  to  me.” 

At  the  same  moment,  Mrs.  Pentreath  pulled 
Mr.  Munder  warily  by  the  coat-tail,  and  whis- 
pered to  him  to  be  careful.  “Mrs.  Frankland’s 
letter,”  she  said  in  his  ear,  '‘tells  us  particularly 
not  to  let  it  be  suspected  that  we  are  acting  under 
orders.” 

“Don’t  you  fancy,  Mrs.  Pentreath,  that  I for- 
get what  I ought  to  remember,”  rejoined  Mr. 


298 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Munder — who  had  forgotten,  nevertheless.  “ And 
don’t  you  imagine  that  I was  going  to  commit 
myself”  (the  very  thing  which  he  had  just  been 
on  the  point  of  doing).  “Leave  this  business  in 
my  hands,  if  you  will  be  so  good. — What  reasons 
did  you  say,  ma’am?”  he  added  aloud,  address- 
ing himself  to  Sarah.  “Never  you  mind  about 
reasons;  we  have  not  got  to  do  with  them  now; 
we  have  got  to  do  with  facts,  and  circumstances, 
and  events.  I was  observing,  or  remarking,  that 
you,  sir,  and  you,  ma’am,  were  shown,  over  this 
Mansion.  You  were  conducted,  and  indeed  led, 
up  the  west  staircase — the  Spacious  west  stair- 
case, sir!  You  were  shown  with  politeness,  and 
even  with  courtesy,  through  the  breakfast-room, 
the  library,  and  the  drawing-room.  In  that 
drawing-room,  you,  sir,  indulge  in  outrageous, 
and,  1 will  add,  in  violent  language.  In  that 
drawing-room,  you,  ma’am,  disappear,  or,  rather, 
go  altogether  out  of  sight.  Such  conduct  as  this, 
so  highly  unparalleled,  so  entirely  unprecedented, 
and  so  very  unusual,  causes  Mrs.  Pentreath  and 
myself  to  feel — ” Here  Mr.  Munder  stopped,  at 
a loss  for  a word  for  the  first  time. 

“Astonished,”  suggested  Mrs.  Pentreath  after 
a long  interval  of  silence. 

“No,  ma’am!”  retorted  Mr.  Munder.  “Noth- 
ing of  the  sort.  We  were  not  at  all  astonished; 
we  were — surprised.  And  what  followed  and 
succeeded  that:  What  did  you  and  I hear,  sir, 

on  the  first  floor?”  (looking  sternly  at  Uncle 
Joseph).  “And  what  did  you  hear,  Mrs.  Pen- 
treath, while  you  were  searching  for  the  miss- 


THE  HEAD  SECRET. 


299 


in g and  absent  party  on  the  second  floor? 
What?” 

Thus  personally  appealed  to,  the  housekeeper 
answered  briefly — “A  scream.” 

“No!  no!  no!”  said  Mr.  Munder,  fretfully 
tapping  his  hand  on  the  table.  “A  screech, 
Mrs.  Pentreath — a screech.  And  what  is  the 
meaning,  purport,  and  upshot  of  that  screech? — 
Young  woman!”  (here  Mr.  Munder  turned  sud- 
denly on  Betsey)  “we  have  now  traced  these  ex- 
traordinary facts  and  circumstances  as  far  as 
you.  Have  the  goodness  to  step  forward,  and 
tell  us,  in  the  presence  of  these  two  parties,  how 
you  came  to  utter,  or  give,  what  Mrs.  Pentreath 
calls  a scream,  but  what  I call  a screech.  A 
plain  statement  will  do,  my  good  girl — quite  a 
plain  statement,  if  you  please.  And,  young 
woman,  one  word  more — speak  up.  You  un- 
derstand me?  Speak  up!” 

Covered  with  confusion  by  the  public  and  sol- 
emn nature  of  this  appeal,  Betsey,  on  starting 
with  her  statement,  unconsciously  followed  the 
oratorical  example  of  no  less  a person  than  Mr. 
Munder  himself;  that  is  to  say,  she  spoke  on  the 
principle  of  drowning  the  smallest  possible  infu- 
sion of  ideas  in  the  largest  possible  dilution  of 
words.  Extricated  from  the  mesh  of  verbal  en- 
tanglement in  which  she  contrived  to  involve  it, 
her  statement  may  be  not  unfairly  represented 
as  simply  consisting  of  the  following  facts: 

First,  Betsey  had  to  relate  that  she  happened 
to  be  just  taking  the  lid  off  a saucepan,  on  the 
kitchen  fire,  when  she  heard,  in  the  neighbor- 


800 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


hood  of  the  housekeeper’s  room,  a sound  of 
hurried  footsteps  (vernacularly  termed  by  the 
witness  a “scurrying  of  somebody’s  feet”). 
Secondly,  Betsey,  on  leaving  the  kitchen  to  as- 
certain what  the  sound  meant,  heard  the  foot- 
steps retreating  rapidly  along  the  passage  which 
led  to  the  north  side  of  the  house,  and,  stimu- 
lated by  curiosity,  followed  the  sound  of  them  for 
a certain  distance.  Thirdly,  at  a sharp  turn  in 
the  passage,  Betsey  stopped  short,  despairing  of 
overtaking  the  person  whose  footsteps  she  heard, 
and  feeling  also  a sense  of  dread  (termed  by  the 
witness,  “creeping  of  the  flesh”)  at  the  idea  of 
venturing  alone,  even  in  broad  daylight,  into  the 
ghostly  quarter  of  the  house.  Fourthly,  while 
still  hesitating  at  the  turn  in  the  passage,  Betsey 
heard  “the  lock  of  a door  go,”  and,  stimulated 
afresh  by  curiosity,  advanced  a few  steps  further 
— then  stopped  again,  debating  within  herself 
the  difficult  and  dreadful  question,  whether  it  is 
the  usual  custom  of  ghosts,  when  passing  from 
one  place  to  another,  to  unlock  any  closed  door 
which  may  happen  to  be  in  their  way,  or  to  save 
trouble  by  simply  passing  through  it.  Fifthly, 
after  long  deliberation,  and  many  false  starts — 
forward  toward  the  north  hall  and  backward 
toward  the  kitchen — Betsey  decided  that  it  was 
the  immemorial  custom  of  all  ghosts  to  pass 
through  doors,  and  not  unlock  them.  Sixthly, 
fortified  by  this  conviction,  Betsey  went  on 
boldly  close  to  the  door,  when  she  suddenly 
heard  a loud  report,  as  of  some  heavy  body  fall- 
ing (graphically  termed  by  the  witness  a “bang- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET, 


301 


ing  scrash”).  Seventhly,  the  noise  frightened 
Betsey  out  of  her  wits,  brought  her  heart  up 
into  her  mouth,  and  took  away  her  breath. 
Eightly,  and  lastly,  on  recovering  breath  enough 
to  scream  (or  screech),  Betsey  did,  with  might 
and  main,  scream  (or  screech),  running  back  to- 
ward the  kitchen  as  fast  as  her  legs  would  carry 
her,  with  all  her  hair  “standing  up  on  end,”  and 
all  her  flesh  “in  a crawl”  from  the  crown  of  her 
head  to  the  soles  of  her  feet. 

“Just  so!  just  so!”  said  Mr.  Munder,  when 
the  statement  came  to  a close — as  if  the  sight  of 
a young  woman  with  all  her  hair  standing  on 
end  and  all  her  flesh  in  a crawl  were  an  ordinary 
result  of  his  experience  of  female  humanity— 
“Just  so!  You  may  stand  back,  my  good  girl 
— you  may  stand  back. — There  is  nothing  to 
smile  at,  sir,”  he  continued,  sternly  addressing 
Uncle  Joseph,  who  had  been  excessively  amused 
by  Betsey’s  manner  of  delivering  her  evidence. 
“You  would  be  doing  better  to  carry,  or  rather 
transport,  your  mind  back  to  what  followed  and 
succeeded  the  young  woman’s  screech.  What 
did  we  all  do,  sir?  We  rushed  to  the  spot,  and 
we  ran  to  the  place.  And  what  did  we  all  see, 
sir? — We  saw  you , ma’am,  lying  horizontally 
prostrate,  on  the  top  of  the  landing  of  the  first  of 
the  flight  of  the  north  stairs;  and  we  saw  those 
keys,  now  hanging  up  yonder,  abstracted  and 
purloined,  and,  as  it  were,  snatched  from  their 
place  in  this  room,  and  lying  horizontally  pros- 
trate likewise  on  the  floor  of  the  hall. — There  are 
the  facts,  the  circumstances,  and  the  events,  laid, 


302 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


or  rather  placed,  before  you.  What  have  you 
got  to  say  to  them?  I call  upon  you  both  sol- 
emnly, and,  I will  add,  seriously ! In  my  own 
name,  in  the  name  of  Mrs.  Pentreath,  in  the 
name  of  our  employers,  in  the  name  of  decency, 
in  the  name  of  wonder — what  do  you  mean  by 
it?” 

With  that  conclusion,  Mr.  Munder  struck  his 
fist  on  the  table,  and  waited,  with  a glare  of 
merciless  expectation,  for  anything  in  the  shape 
of  an  answer,  an  explanation,  or  a defense  which 
the  culprits  at  the  bottom  of  the  room  might  be 
disposed  to  offer. 

“Tell  him  anything,”  whispered  Sarah  to  the 
old  man.  “Anything  to  keep  him  quiet;  any- 
thing to  make  him  let  us  go!  After  what  I 
have  suffered,  these  people  will  drive  me  mad!” 

Never  very  quick  at  inventing  an  excuse,  and 
perfectly  ignorant  besides  of  what  had  really 
happened  to  his  niece  while  she  was  alone  in  the 
north  hall,  Uncle  Joseph,  with  the  best  will  in 
the  world  to  prove  himself  equal  to  the  emer- 
gency, felt  considerable  difficulty  in  deciding 
what  he  should  say  or  do.  Determined,  how- 
ever, at  all  hazards,  to  spare  Sarah  any  useless 
suffering,  and  to  remove  her  from  the  house  as 
speedily  as  possible,  he  rose  to  take  the  responsi- 
bility of  speaking  on  himself,  looking  hard,  be- 
fore he  opened  his  lips,  at  Mr.  Munder,  who  im- 
mediately leaned  forward  on  the  table  with  his 
hand  to  his  ear.  Uncle  Joseph  acknowledged 
this  polite  act  of  attention  with  one  of  his  fan- 
tastic bows;  and  then  replied  to  the  whole  of  the 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


303 


stewards  long  harangue  in  these  six  unanswer- 
able words : 

“1  wish  you  good-day,  sir!” 

“How  dare  you  wish  me  anything  of  the  sort!” 
cried  Mr.  Muuder,  jumping  out  of  his  chair  in 
violent  indignation.  “How  dare  you  trifle  with 
a serious  subject  and  a serious  question  in  that 
way?  Wish  me  good-day,  indeed ! Do  you  sup- 
pose I am  going  to  let  you  out  of  this  house  with- 
out hearing  some  explanation  of  the  abstracting 
and  purloining  and  snatching  of  the  keys  of  the 
north  rooms?” 

“Ah!  it  is  that  you  want  to  know?”  said 
Uncle  Joseph,  stimulated  to  plunge  headlong 
into  an  excuse  by  the  increasing  agitation  and 
terror  of  his  niece.  “See,  now!  I shall  explain. 
What  was  it,  dear  and  good  sir,  that  we  said 
w~hen  we  were  first  let  in?  This — 4 We  have 
come  to  see  the  house.’  Now  there  is  a north 
side  to  the  house,  and  a west  side  to  the  house. 
Good!  That  is  two  sides;  and  I and  my  niece 
are  two  people;  and  we  divide  ourselves  in  two, 
to  see  the  two  sides  1 am  the  half  that  goes 
west,  with  you  and  the  dear  and  good  lady  be- 
hind there.  My  niece  here  is  the  other  half  that 
goes  north,  all  by  herself,  and  drops  the  keys,  and 
falls  into  a faint,  because  in  that  old  part  of  the 
house  it  is  what  you  call  musty-fusty,  and  there 
is  smells  of  tombs  and  spiders — and  that  is  all 
the  explanation,  and  quite  enough,  too.  I wish 
you  good-day,  sir.” 

“Damme!  if  ever  I met  with  the  like  of  you 
before!”  roared  Mr.  Munder,  entirely  forgetting 


304 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


his  dignity,  his  respectability,  and  his  long 
words  in  the  exasperation  of  the  moment. 
“You  are  going  to  have  it  all  your  own  way, 
are  you,  Mr.  Foreigner?  You  will  walk  out  of 
this  place  when  you  please,  will  you,  Mr.  For- 
eigner? We  will  see  what  the  justice  of  the 
peace  for  this  district  has  to  say  to  that,”  cried 
Mr.  Munder,  recovering  his  solemn  manner  and 
his  lofty  phraseology.  “Property  in  this  house 
is  confided  to  my  care;  and  unless  I hear  some 
satisfactory  explanation  of  the  purloining  of  those 
keys  hanging  up  there,  sir,  on  that  wall,  sir,  be- 
fore your  eyes,  sir— I shall  consider  it  my  duty 
to  detain  you,  and  the  person  with  you,  until  I 
can  get  legal  advice,  and  lawful  advice,  and 
magisterial  advice.  Do  you  hear  that,  sir?” 

Uncle  Joseph’s  ruddy  cheeks  suddenly  deep- 
ened in  color,  and  his  face  assumed  an  expression 
which  made  the  housekeeper  rather  uneasy,  and 
which  had  an  irresistibly  cooling  effect  on  the 
heat  of  Mr.  Munder’s  anger. 

“You  will  keep  us  here?  You?”  said  the  old 
man,  speaking  very  quietly,  and  looking  very 
steadily  at  the  steward.  “Now,  see.  I take  this 
lady  (courage,  my  child,  courage ! there  is  noth- 
ing to  tremble  for)  —I  take  this  lady  with  me;  I 
throw  that  door  open,  so ! I stand  and  wait  before 
it;  and  1 say  to  you,  ‘Shut  that  door  against  us, 
if  you  dare.’  ” 

At  this  defiance,  Mr.  Munder  advanced  a few 
steps,  and  then  stopped.  If  Uncle  Joseph’s 
steady  look  at  him  had  wavered  for  an  instant, 
he  would  have  closed  the  door. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


305 


“I  say  again,”  repeated  the  oldjnan,  “shut  it 
against  us,  if  you  dare.  The  laws  and  customs 
of  your  country,  sir,  have  made  me  an  English- 
man. If  you  can  talk  into  one  ear  of  a magis- 
trate, I can  talk  into  the  other.  If  he  must 
listen  to  you,  a citizen  of  this  country,  he  must 
listen  to  me,  a citizen  of  this  country  also.  Say 
the  word,  if  you  please.  Do  you  accuse?  or  do 
you  threaten?  or  do  you  shut  the  door?” 

Before  Mr.  Munder  could  reply  to  any  one  of 
these  three  direct  questions,  the  housekeeper 
begged  him  to  return  to  his  chair  and  to  speak 
to  her.  As  he  resumed  his  place,  she  whispered 
to  him  in  warning  tones,  “Remember  Mrs. 
Frankland’s  letter!” 

At  the  same  time,  Uncle  Joseph,  considering 
that  he  had  waited  long  enough,  took  a step  for- 
ward to  the  door.  He  was  prevented  from  ad- 
vancing further  by  his  niece,  who  caught  him 
suddenly  by  the  arm,  and  said  in  his  ear,  “Look! 
they  are  whispering  about  us  again!” 

“Well!”  said  Mr.  Munder,  replying  to  the 
housekeeper.  “1  do  remember  Mrs.  Frankland’s 
letter,  ma’am;  and  what  then?” 

“Hush!  not  so  loud,”  whispered  Mrs.  Pen- 
treath.  “1  don’t  presume,  Mr.  Munder,  to  differ 
in  opinion  with  you;  but  I want  to  ask  one  or  two 
questions.  Do  you  think  we  have  any  charge 
that  a magistrate  would  listen  to,  to  bring  against 
these  people?” 

Mr.  Munder  looked  puzzled,  and  seemed,  for 
once  in  a way,  to  bo  at  a loss  for  an  answer. 
“Does  what  you  remember  of  Mrs.  Frankland’s 


306 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS 


letter,”  pursued  the  housekeeper,  “incline you  to 
think  that  she  would  be  pleased  at  a public  ex- 
posure of  what  has  happened  in  the  house?  She 
tells  us  to  take  private  notice  of  that  woman’s 
conduct,  and  to  follow  her  unperceived  when 
she  goes  away.  I don’t  venture  on  the  liberty 
of  advising  you,  Mr.  Munder,  but,  as  far  as  re- 
gards myself,  1 wash  my  hands  of  all  responsi- 
bility, if  we  do  anything  but  follow  Mrs.  Frank- 
land’s  instructions  (as  she  herself  tells  us)  to  the 
letter.” 

Mr.  Munder  hesitated.  Uncle  Joseph,  who 
had  paused  for  a minute  when  Sarah  directed  his 
attention  to  the  whispering  at  the  upper  end  of 
the  room,  now  drew  her  on  slowly  with  him  to 
the  door.  “Betzee,  my  dear,”  he  said,  address- 
ing the  maid,  with  perfect  coolness  and  compos- 
ure, “we  are  strangers  here;  will  you  be  so  kind 
to  us  as  to  show  the  way  out?” 

Betsey  locked  at  the  housekeeper,  who  mo- 
tioned to  her  to  appeal  for  orders  to  the  steward. 
Mr.  Munder  was  sorely  tempted,  for  the  sake  of 
his  own  importance,  to  insist  on  instantly  carry- 
ing out  the  violent  measures  to  which  he  had 
threatened  to  have  recouise;  but  Mrs.  Pentreath’s 
objections  made  him  pause  in  spite  of  himself. 

“Betzee,  my  dear,”  repeated  Uncle  Joseph, 
“has  all  this  talking  been  too  much  for  your 
ears?  has  it  made  you  deaf?” 

“Wait!”  cried  Mr.  Munder,  impatiently.  “I 
insist  on  your  waiting,  sir!” 

“You  insist?  Well,  well,  because  you  are  an 
uncivil  man  is  no  reason  why  I should  be  an  un- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


307 


civil  man  too.  We  will  wait  a little,  sir,  if  you 
have  anything  more  to  say.”  Making  that  con- 
cession to  the  claims  of  politeness,  Uncle  Joseph 
Walked  gently  backward  and  forward  with  his 
niece  in  the  passage  outside  the  door.  4 4 Sarah, 
my  child,  I have  frightened  the  man  of  the  big 
words,”  he  whispered.  “Try  not  to  tremble  so 
much;  we  shall  soon  be  out  in  the  fresh  air 
again.” 

In  the  meantime,  Mr.  Munder  continued  his 
whispered  conversation  with  the  housekeeper, 
making  a desperate  effort,  in  the  midst  of  his 
perplexities,  to  maintain  his  customary  air  of 
patronage  and  his  customary  assumption  of  su- 
periority. “There  is  a great  deal  of  truth, 
ma’am,”  he  softly  began — “a  great  deal  of 
truth,  certainly,  in  what  you  say.  But  you  are 
talking  of  the  woman,  while  1 am  talking  of  the 
man.  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  I am  to  let 
him  go,  after  what  has  happened,  without  at  least 
insisting  on  his  giving  me  his  name  and  address?” 

“Do  you  put  trust  enough  in  the  foreigner  to 
believe  that  he  would  give  you  his  right  name 
and  address  if  you  asked  him?”  inquired  Mrs. 
Pentreath.  “With  submission  to  your  better 
judgment,  I must  confess  that  I don’t.  But  sup- 
posing you  were  to  detain  him  and  charge  him 
before  the  magistrate — and  how  you  are  to  do 
that,  the  magistrate’s  house  being,  I suppose, 
about  a couple  of  hours’  walk  from  here,  is  more 
than  I can  tell— you  must  surely  risk  offending 
Mrs.  Frankland  by  detaining  the  woman  and 
charging  the  woman  as  well ; for  after  all,  Mr. 


308 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Munder,  though  I believe  the  foreigner  to  be 
capable  of  anything,  it  was  the  woman  that  took 
the  keys,  was  it  not?” 

“Quite  so!  quite  so!”  said  Mr.  Munder,  whose 
sleepy  eyes  were  now  opened  to  this  plain  and 
straightforward  view  of  the  case  for  the  first  time. 
“I  was,  oddly  enough,  putting  that  point  to  my- 
self, Mrs.  Pentreath,  just  before  you  happened  to 
speak  of  it.  Just  so!  just  so!” 

“I  can’t  help  thinking,”  continued  the  house- 
keeper, in  a mysterious  whisper,  “that  the  best 
plan,  and  the  plan  most  in  accordance  with  our 
instructions,  is  to  let  them  both  go,  as  if  we  did 
not  care  to  demean  ourselves  by  any  more  quar- 
reling or  arguing  with  them,  and  to  have  them 
followed  to  the  next  place  they  stop  at,  The 
gardener’s  boy,  Jacob,  is  weeding  the  broad 
walk  in  the  west  garden  this  afternoon.  These 
people  have  not  seen  him  about  the  premises,  and 
need  not  see  him,  if  they  are  let  out  again  by  the 
south  door.  Jacob  is  a sharp  lad,  as  you  know: 
and,  if  he  was  properly  instructed,  I really  don’t 
see  — ” 

“It  is  a most  singular  circumstance,  Mrs. 
Pentreath,”  interposed  Mr.  Munder,  with  the 
gravity  of  consummate  assurance;  “but  when  I 
first  sat  down  to  this  table,  that  idea  about  Jacob 
occurred  to  me.  What  with  the  effort  of  speak- 
ing, and  the  heat  of  argument,  I got  led  away 
from  it  in  the  most  unaccountable  manner — ” 

Here  Uncle  Joseph,  whose  stock  of  patience 
and  politeness  was  getting  exhausted,  put  his 
head  into  the  room  again. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


309 


“X  shall  have  one  last  word  to  address  to  you, 
sir,  in  a moment,”  said  Mr.  Munder,  before  the 
old  man  could  speak.  6 ‘Don’t  you  suppose  that 
your  blustering  and  your  bullying  has  had  any 
effect  on  me.  It  may  do  with  foreigners,  sir;  but 
it  won’t  do  with  Englishmen,  X can  tell  you.” 

Uncle  Joseph  shrugged  his  shoulders,  smiled, 
and  rejoined  his  niece  in  the  passage  outside. 
While  the  housekeeper  and  the  steward  had  been 
conferring  together,  Sarah  had  been  trying  hard 
to  persuade  her  uncle  to  profit  by  her  knowledge 
of  the  passages  that  led  to  the  south  door,  and  to 
slip  away  unpercieved.  But  the  old  man  steadily 
refused  to  be  guided  by  her  advice.  “X  will  not 
go  out  of  a place  guiltily,”  he  said,  “when  I 
have  done  no  harm.  Nothing  shall  persuade  me 
to  put  myself,  or  to  put  you,  in  the  wrong.  I 
am  not  a man  of  much  wits;  but  let  my  con- 
science guide  me,  and  so  long  X shall  go  right. 
They  let  us  in  here,  Sarah,  of  their  own  accord ; 
and  they  shall  let  us  out  of  their  own  accord  also.  ” 

“Mr.  Munder!  Mr.  Munder!”  whispered  the 
housekeeper,  interfering  to  stop  a fresh  explosion 
of  the  steward’s  indignation,  which  threatened 
to  break  out  at  the  contempt  implied  by  the 
shrugging  of  Uncle  Joseph’s  shoulders,  “while 
you  are  speaking  to  that  audacious  man,  shall  I 
slip  into  the  garden  and  give  Jacob  his  instruc- 
tions?” 

Mr.  Munder  paused  before  answering — tried 
hard  to  see  a more  dignified  way  out  of  the  di- 
lemma in  which  he  had  placed  himself  than  the 
way  suggested  by  the  housekeeper-failed  an- 


310 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


tirely  to  discern  anything  of  the  sort — swallowed 
his  indignation  at  one  heroic  gulp — and  replied 
emphatically  in  two  words:  “Go,  ma’am.” 

“What  does  that  mean?  what  has  she  gone 
that  way  for?”  said  Sarah  to  her  uncle,  in  a 
quick,  suspicious  whisper,  as  the  housekeeper 
brushed  hastily  by  them  on  her  way  to  the  west 
garden. 

Before  there  was  time  to  answer  the  question, 
it  was  followed  by  another,  put  by  Mr.  Munder. 

“Now,  sir!”  said  the  steward,  standing  in  the 
doorway,  with  his  hands  under  his  coat-tails 
and  his  head  very  high  in  the  air.  “Now,  sir, 
and  now,  ma’am,  for  my  last  words.  Am  1 to 
have  a proper  explanation  of  the  abstracting  and 
purloining  of  those  keys,  or  am  1 not?” 

“Certainly,  sir,  you  are  to  have  the  expla- 
nation,” replied  Uncle  Joseph.  “It  is,  if  you 
please,  the  same  explanation  that  I had  the  honor 
of  giving  to  you  a little  while  ago.  Do  you  wish 
to  hear  it  again?  It  is  all  the  explanation  we 
have  got  about  us.” 

“Oh!  it  is,  is  it?”  said  Mr.  Munder.  “Then 
all  1 have  to  say  to  both  of  you  is — leave  the 
house  directly!  Directly!”  he  added,  in  his 
most  coarsely  offensive  tones,  taking  refuge  in 
the  insolence  of  authority,  from  the  dim  con- 
sciousness of  the  absurdity  of  his  own  position, 
which  would  force  itself  on  him  even  while  he 
spoke.  “Yes,  sir!”  he  continued,  growing  more 
and  more  angry  at  the  composure  with  which 
Uncle  Joseph  listened  to  him — “Yes,  sir!  you 
may  bow  and  scrape,  and  jabber  your  broken 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


311 


English  somewhere  else.  I won’t  put  up  with 
you  here.  I have  reflected  with  myself,  and 
reasoned  with  myself,  and  asked  myself  calmly 
— as  Englishmen  always  do — if  it  is  any  use 
making  you  of  importance,  and  I have  come  to  a 
conclusion,  and  that  conculsion  is — no,  it  isn’t! 
Don’t  you  go  away  with  a notion  that  your  blus- 
terings  and  bullyings  have  had  any  effect  on  me. 
(Show  them  out,  Betsey!)  I consider  you  be- 
neath— aye,  and  below! — my  notice.  Language 
fails,  sir,  to  express  my  contempt.  Leave  the 
bouse!” 

“And  I,  sir,”  returned  the  object  of  all  this 
withering  derision,  with  the  most  exasperating 
politeness,  “I  shall  say,  for  having  your  con- 
tempt, what  I could  by  no  means  have  said  for 
having  your  respect,  which  is,  briefly— thank 
you.  I,  the  small  foreigner,  take  the  contempt 
of  you,  the  big  Englishman,  as  the  greatest  com- 
pliment that  can  be  paid  from  a man  of  your 
composition  to  a man  of  mine.”  With  that, 
Uncle  Joseph  made  a last  fantastic  bow,  took  his 
niece’s  arm  and  f flowed  Betsey  along  the  pass- 
ages that  led  to  the  south  door,  leaving  Mr.  Mun- 
der  to  compose  a fit  retort  at  his  leisure. 

Ten  minutes  later  the  housekeeper  returned 
breathless  to  her  room,  and  found  the  steward 
walking  backward  and  forward  in  a high  state 
of  irritation. 

“Pray  make  your  mind  easy,  Mr.  Munder,” 
she  said.  “They  are  both  clear  of  the  house  at 
last,  and  Jacob  has  got  them  well  in  view  on  the 
path  over  the  moor.” 


312 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS.  . 


CHAPTER  Y. 

MOZART  PLAYS  FAREWELL. 

Excepting  that  he  took  leave  of  Betsey,  the 
servant-maid,  with  great  cordiality,  Uncle  Jo- 
seph spoke  not  another  word,  after  his  parting 
reply  to  Mr.  Munder,  until  he  and  his  niece  were 
alone  again  under  the  east  wall  of  Porthgenna 
Tower.  There  he  paused,  looked  up  at  the  house, 
then  at  his  companion,  then  back  at  the  house 
once  more,  and  at  last  opened  his  lips  to  speak. 

“I  am  sorry,  my  child,’'  he  said— -“I  am  sorry 
from  my  heart.  This  has  been  what  you  call  in 
England  a bad  job.” 

Thinking  that  he  referred  to  the  scene  which 
had  just  passed  in  the  housekeeper’s  room,  Sarah 
asked  his  pardon  for  having  been  the  innocent 
means  of  bringing  him  into  angry  collision  with 
such  a person  as  Mr.  Munder, 

“No!  no!  noP’hecried.  “1  was  not  thinking 
of  the  man  of  the  big  body  and  the  big  words. 
He  made  me  angry,  it  is  not  to  be  denied;  but 
that  is  all  over  and  gone  now.  I put  him  and 
his  big  words  away  from  mo,  as  1 kick  this  stone, 
here,  from  the  pathway  into  the  road.  It  is  not 
of  your  Munders,  or  your  housekeepers,  or  your 
Betzees,  that  1 now  speak  —it  is  of  something 
that  is  nearer  to  you  and  nearer  to  me  also,  be- 
cause I make  of  your  interest  my  own  interest 
too.  I shall  tell  you  what  it  is  while  we  walk 


THE  BEAD  SECRET. 


313 


on— for  I see  in  your  face,  Sarah,  that  you  are 
restless  and  in  fear  so  long  as  we  stop  in  the  neigh- 
borhood of  this  dungeon-house.  Come!  I am 
ready  for  the  march.  There  is  the  path.  Let 
us  go  back  by  it,  and  pick  up  our  little  bag- 
gages at  the  inn  where  we  left  them,  on  the 
other  side  of  this  windy  wilderness  of  a place.” 

“Yes,  yes,  uncle!  Let  us  lose  no  time;  let  us 
walk  fast.  Don’t  be  afraid  of  tiring  me;  I am 
much  stronger  now.” 

They  turned  into  the  same  path  by  which  they 
had  approached  Porthgenna  Tower  in  the  after- 
noon. By  the  time  they  had  walked  over  a little 
more  than  the  first  hundred  yards  of  their  jour- 
ney, Jacob,  the  gardener’s  boy,  stole  out  from 
behind  the  ruinous  inclosure  at  the  north  side  of 
the  house  with  his  hoe  in  his  hand.  The  sun 
had  just  set,  but  there  was  a fine  light  still  over 
the  wide,  open  surface  of  the  moor;  and  Jacob 
paused  to  let  the  old  man  and  his  niece  get  fur- 
ther away  from  the  building  before  he  followed 
them.  The  housekeeper’s  instructions  had  di- 
rected him  just  to  keep  them  in  sight,  and  no 
more ; and,  if  he  happened  to  observe  that  they 
stopped  and  turned  round  to  look  behind  them, 
he  was  to  stop,  too,  and  pretend  to  be  digging 
with  his  hoe,  as  if  he  was  at  work  on  the  moor- 
land. Stimulated  by  the  promise  of  a sixpence,  if 
he  was  careful  to  do  exactly  as  he  had  been  told, 
Jacob  kept  his  instructions  in  his  memory,  and 
kept  his  eye  on  the  two  strangers,  and  promised 
as  fairly  to  earn  the  reward  in  prospect  for  him 
as  a boy  could. 


314 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“ And  now,  my  child,  I shall  tell  you  what  it  is 
I am  sorry  for,”  resumed  Uncle  Joseph,  as  they 
proceeded  along  the  path.  “X  am  sorry  that  we 
have  come  out  upon  this  journey,  and  run  our 
little  risk,  and  had  our  little  scolding,  and  gained 
nothing.  The  word  you  said  in  my  ear,  Sarah, 
when  I was  getting  you  out  of  the  faint  (and  you 
should  have  come  out  of  it  sooner,  if  the  muddle- 
headed  people  of  the  dungeon-house  had  been 
quicker  with  the  water) — the  word  you  said  in 
my  ear  was  not  much,  but  it  was  enough  to  tell 
me  that  we  have  taken  this  journey  in  vain.  I 
may  hold  my  tongue,  I may  make  my  best  face 
at  it,  1 may  be  content  to  walk  blindfolded  with 
a mystery  that  lets  no  peep  of  daylight  into 
my  eyes— but  it  is  not  the  less  true  that  the  one 
thing  your  heart  was  most  set  on  doing,  when  we 
started  on  this  journey,  is  the  one  thing  also  that 
you  have  not  done.  1 know  that,  if  I know  noth- 
ing else;  and  I say  again,  it  is  a bad  job — yes, 
yes,  upon  my  life  and  faith,  there  is  no  disguise 
to  put  upon  it;  it  is,  in  your  plainest  English,  a 
very  bad  job.” 

As  he  concluded  the  expression  of  his  sympathy 
in  these  quaint  terms,  the  dread  and  distrust,  the 
watchful  terror,  that  marred  the  natural  softness 
of  Sarah’s  eyes,  disappeared  in  an  expression  of 
sorrowful  tenderness,  which  seemed  to  give  back 
to  them  all  their  beauty. 

“Don’t  be  sorry  forme,  uncle,”  she  said,  stop- 
ping, and  gently  brushing  away  with  her  hand 
some  specks  of  dust  that  lay  on  the  collar  of  his 
coat.  “I  have  suffered  so  much  and  suffered 


THE  HEAD  SECRET. 


315 


so  long,  that  the  heaviest  disappointments  pass 
lightly  over  me  now.” 

“I  won’t  hear  you  say  it !”  cried  Uncle  Joseph. 
“You  give  me  shocks  1 can’t  bear  when  you  talk 
to  me  in  this  way.  You  shall  have  no  more  disap- 
pointments— no,  you  shall  not!  I,  Joseph  Busch- 
mann,  the  Obstinate,  the  Pig-headed,  I say 
it  !” 

“The  day  when  1 shall  have  no  more  disappoint- 
ments, uncle,  is  not  far  off  now.  Let  me  wait  a 
little  longer,  and  endure  a little  longer:  I have 
learned  to  be  patient,  and  to  hope  for  nothing. 
Fearing  and  failing,  fearing  and  failing — that 
has  been  my  life  erer  since  1 was  a young  wo- 
man— the  life  I have  become  used  to  by  this 
time.  If  you  are  surprised,  as  1 know  you  must 
be,  at  my  not  possessing  myself  of  the  letter, 
when  I had  the  keys  of  the  Myrtle  Boom  in  my 
hand,  and  when  no  one  was  near  to  stop  me,  re- 
member the  history  of  my  life,  and  take  that  as 
an  explanation.  Fearing  and  failing,  fearing 
and  failing — if  I told  you  all  the  truth,  I could 
tell  no  more  than  that.  Let  us  walk  on,  uncle.” 

The  resignation  in  her  voice  and  manner  while 
she  spoke  was  the  resignation  of  despair.  It 
gave  her  an  unnatural  self-possession,  which 
altered  her,  in  the  eyes  of  Uncle  Joseph,  almost 
past  recognition.  He  looked  at  her  in  undis- 
guised alarm. 

“No!”  he  said,  <c we  will  not  walk  on;  we  will 
walk  back  to  the  dungeon-house;  we  will  make 
another  plan;  we  will  try  to  get  at  this  devil's 
imp  of  a letter  in  some  other  way.  I care  for  no 


316 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Munders,  no  housekeepers,  no  Betzees — 1 ! I care 
for  nothing  but  the  getting  you  the  one  thing 
you  want,  and  the  taking  you  home  again  as 
easy  in  your  mind  as  I am  myself.  Come ! let 
us  go  back.” 

4 ‘ It  is  too  late  to  go  back.” 

4 ‘How  too  late?  Ah,  dismal,  dingy,  dungeon- 
house  of  the  devil,  how  I hate  you!”  cried  Uncle 
Joseph,  looking  back  over  the  prospect,  and  shak- 
ing both  his  fists  at  Porthgenna  Tower. 

“It  is  too  late,  uncle,”  she  repeated.  “Too 
late,  because  the  opportunity  is  lost;  too  late,  be- 
cause if  I could  bring  it  back,  I dare  not  go  near 
the  Myrtle  Room  again.  My  last  hope  was  to 
change  the  hiding-place  of  the  letter — and  that 
last  hope  I have  given  up.  I have  only  one  ob- 
ject in  life  left  now;  you  may  help  me  in  it;  but 
I cannot  tell  you  how  unless  you  come  on  with 
me  at  once — unless  you  say  nothing  more  about 
going  back  to  Porthgenna  Tower.” 

Uncle  Joseph  began  to  expostulate.  His  niece 
stopped  him  in  the  middle  of  a sentence,  by 
touching  him  on  the  shoulder  and  pointing  to 
a particular  spot  on  the  darkening  slope  of  the 
moor  below  them. 

“Look!”  she  said,  “there  is  somebody  on  the 
path  behind  us.  Is  it  a boy  or  a man?” 

Uncle  Joseph  looked  through  the  fading  light 
and  saw  a figure  at  some  little  distance.  It 
seemed  like  the  figure  of  a boy,  and  he  was  ap- 
parently engaged  in  digging  on  the  moor. 

“Let  us  turn  round  and  go  on  at  once,”  pleaded 
Sarah,  before  the  old  man  could  answer  her.  “I 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


317 


can’t  say  what  I want  to  say  to  you,  uncle,  until 
we  are  safe  under  shelter  at  the  inn.” 

They  went  on  until  they  reached  the  highest 
ground  on  the  moor.  There  they  stopped,  and 
looked  back  again.  The  rest  ot  their  way  lay 
down  hill;  and  the  spot  on  which  they  stood  was 
the  last  point  from  which  a view  could  be  ob- 
tained of  Porthgenna  Tower. 

“ We  have  lost  sight  of  the  boy,”  said  Uncle 
Joseph,  looking  over  the  ground  below  them. 

Sarah’s  younger  and  sharper  eyes  bore  witness 
to  the  truth  of  her  uncle’s  words — the  view  over 
the  moor  was  lonely  now,  in  every  direction,  as 
far  as  she  could  see.  Before  going  on  again, 
she  moved  a little  away  from  the  old  man,  and 
looked  at  the  tower  of  the  ancient  house,  rising 
heavy  and  black  in  the  dim  light,  with  the  dark 
sea  background  stretching  behind  it  like  a wall. 
“Never  again !”  she  whispered  to  herself.  “Never, 
never,  never  again!”  Her  eyes  wandered  away 
to  the  church,  and  to  the  cemetery  inclosure  by 
its  side,  barely  distinguishable  now  in  the  shadows 
of  the  coming  night.  “Wait  for  me  a little 
longer,”  she  said,  looking  toward  the  burial- 
ground  with  straining  eyes,  and  pressing  her 
hand  on  her  bosom  over  the  place  where  the 
book  of  Hymns  lay  hid.  “My  wanderings  are 
nearly  at  an  end ; the  day  for  my  coming  home 
again  is  not  far  off!” 

The  tears  filled  her  eyes  and  shut  out  the  view. 
She  rejoined  her  uncle,  and,  taking  his  arm  again, 
drew  him  rapidly  a few  steps  along  the  downward 
path — then  checked  herself,  as  if  struck  by  a sud- 


318 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


den  suspicion,  and  walked  back  a few  paces  to 
the  highest  ridge  of  the  ground,  “ 1 am  not 
sure,”  she  said,  replying  to  her  companion’s  look 
of  surprise — “I  am  not  sure  whether  v/e  have 
seen  the  last  yet  of  that  boy  who  was  digging  on 
the  moor.” 

As  the  words  passed  her  lips,  a figure  stole  out 
from  behind  one  of  the  large  fragments  of  granite 
rock  which  were  scattered  over  the  waste  on  all 
sides  of  them.  It  was  once  more  the  figure  of 
the  boy,  and  again  he  began  to  dig,  without  the 
slightest  apparent  reason,  on  the  barren  ground 
at  his  feet. 

“Yes,  yes,  I see,”  said  Uncle  Joseph,  as  his 
niece  eagerly  directed  his  attention  to  the  suspi- 
cious figure.  “It  is  the  same  boy,  and  he  is  dig- 
ging still — and,  if  you  please,  what  of  that?” 

Sarah  did  not  attempt  to  answer.  “Let  us  get 
on,”  she  said,  hurriedly.  “Let  us  get  on  as  fast 
as  we  can  to  the  inn.” 

They  turned  again,  and  took  the  downward 
path  before  them.  In  less  than  a minute  they 
had  lost  sight  of  Porthgenna  Tower,  of  the  old 
church,  and  of  the  whole  of  the  western  view. 
Still,  though  there  was  now  nothing  but  the 
blank  darkening  moorland  to  look  back  at,  Sarah 
persisted  in  stopping  at  frequent  intervals,  as  long 
as  there  was  any  light  left,  to  glance  behind  her. 
She  made  no  remark,  she  offered  no  excuse  for 
thus  delaying  the  journey  back  to  the  inn.  It 
was  only  when  they  arrived  within  sight  of  the 
lights  of  the  post-town  that  she  ceased  looking 
back,  and  that  she  spoke  to  her  companion.  The 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


319 


few  words  she  addressed  to*  him  amounted  to 
nothing  more  than  a request  that  he  would  ask 
for  a private  sitting-room  as  soon  as  they  reached 
their  place  of  sojourn  for  the  night. 

They  ordered  beds  at  the  inn,  and  were  shown 
into  the  best  parlor  to  wait  for  supper.  The  mo- 
ment they  were  alone,  Sarah  drew  a chair  close 
to  the  old  man’s  side,  and  whispered  these  words 
in  his  ear: 

‘‘Uncle!  we  have  been  followed  every  step  of 
the  way  from  Porthgenna  Tower  to  this  place.” 

“So!  so!  And  how  do  you  know  that?”  in- 
quired Uncle  Joseph. 

“Hush!  Somebody  may  be  listening  at  the 
door,  somebody  may  be  creeping  under  the  win- 
dow. You  noticed  that  boy  who  was  digging  on 
the  moor? — ” 

“Bah!  Why,  Sarah!  do  you  frighten  your- 
self, do  you  try  to  frighten  me  about  a boy?” 

“Oh,  not  so  loud!  not  so  loud!  They  have 
laid  a trap  for  us.  Uncle!  I suspected  it  when 
we  first  entered  the  doors  of  Porthgenna  Tower; 
I am  sure  of  it  now.  What  did  all  that  whis- 
pering mean  between  the  housekeeper  and  the 
steward  when  we  first  got  into  the  hall?  I 
watched  their  faces,  and  1 know  they  were  talk- 
ing about  us.  They  were  not  half  surprised 
enough  at  seeing  us,  not  half  surprised  enough 
at  hearing  what  we  wanted.  Don’t  laugh  at  me, 
uncle!  There  is  real  danger:  it  is  no  fancy  of 
mine.  The  keys — come  closer — the  keys  of  the 
north  rooms  have  got  new  labels  on  them;  the 
doors  have  all  been  numbered.  Think  of  that! 


320 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Think  of  the  whispering  when  we  came  in,  and 
the  whispering  afterward,  in  the  housekeeper’s 
room,  when  you  got  up  to  go  away.  You  noticed 
the  sudden  change  in  that  man’s  behavior  after 
the  housekeeper  spoke  to  him — you  must  have 
noticed  it?  They  let  us  in  too  easily,  and  they 
let  us  out  too  easily.  No,  no!  I am  not  delud- 
ing myself.  There  was  some  secret  motive  for 
letting  us  into  the  house,  and  some  secret  mo- 
tive for  letting  us  out  again.  That  boy  on  the 
moor  betrays  it,  if  nothing  else  does.  I saw  him 
following  us  all  the  way  here,  as  plainly  as  I see 
you.  I am  not  frightened  without  reason  this 
time.  As  surely  as  we  two  are  together  in  this 
room,  there  is  a trap  laid  for  us  by  the  people  at; 
Porthgenna  Tower!” 

“A  trap?  What  trap?  And  how?  and  why? 
and  wherefore?”  inquired  Uncle  Joseph,  express- 
ing bewilderment  by  waving  both  his  hands 
rapidly  to  and  fro  close  before  his  eyes. 

“They  want  to  make  me  speak,  they  want  to 
follow  me,  they  want  to  find  out  where  I go, 
they  want  to  ask  me  questions,”  she  answered, 
trembling  violently.  “Uncle!  you  remember 
what  I told  you  of  those  crazed  words  I said  to 
Mrs.  Frankland — I ought  to  have  cut  my  tongue 
out  rather  than  have  spoken  them!  They  have 
done  dreadful  mischief — lam  certain  of  it — dread- 
ful mischief  already.  I have  made  myself  sus- 
pected ! I shall  be  questioned,  if  Mrs  Frankland 
finds  me  out  again.  She  will  try  to  find  me  out 
— we  shall  be  inquired  after  here — we  must  de- 
stroy all  trace  of  where  we  go  to  next — we  must 


THE  HEAD  SECRET. 


321 


make  sure  that  the  people  at  this  inn  can  answer 
no  questions — oh,  Uncle  Joseph!  whatever  we 
do,  let  us  make  sure  of  that!” 

“Good,”  said  the  old  man,  nodding  his  head 
with  a perfectly  self-satisfied  air.  “Be  quite 
easy,  my  child,  and  leave  it  to  me  to  make  sure. 
When  you  are  gone  to  bed,  I shall  send  for  the 
landlord,  and  I shall  say:  ‘Get  us  a little  car- 
riage, if  you  please,  sir,  to  take  us  back  again 
to-morrow  to  the  coach  for  Truro.’  ” 

“No,  no,  no!  we  must  not  hire  a carriage 
here.” 

“And  I say  yes,  yes,  yes!  We  will  hire  a car- 
riage here,  because  I will,  first  of  all,  make  sure 
with  the  landlord.  Listen.  I shall  say  to  him: 
‘If  there  come  after  us  people  with  inquisitive 
looks  in  their  eyes  and  uncomfortable  questions 
in  their  mouths — if  you  please,  sir,  hold  your 
tongue.’  Then  I shall  wink  my  eye,  I shall  lay 
my  finger,  so,  to  the  side  of  my  nose,  I shall  give 
one  little  laugh  that  means  much — and,  crick! 
crack!  I have  made  sure  of  the  landlord!  and 
there  is  an  end  of  it!” 

“We  must  not  trust  the  landlord,  uucle — we 
must  not  trust  anybody.  When  we  leave  this 
place  to-morrow,  we  must  leave  it  on  foot,  and 
take  care  no  living  soul  follows  us.  Look!  here 
is  a map  of  West  Cornwall  hanging  up  on  the 
wall,  with  roads  and  cross-roads  all  marked  on 
it.  We  may  find  out  beforehand  what  direction 
we  ought  to  walk  in.  A night’s  rest  will  give 
me  all  the  strength  I want;  and  we  have  no 
luggage  that  we  cannot  carry.  You  have  noth- 
K— Yol.  16 


322 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


ing  but  your  knapsack,  and  I have  nothing  but 
the  liitle  carpet-bag  you  lent  me.  We  can  walk 
six,  seven,  even  ten  miles,  with  resting  by  the 
way.  Come  here  and  look  at  the  map — pray, 
pray  come  and  look  at  the  map!’* 

Protesting  against  the  abandonment  of  his  own 
project,  which  he  declared,  and  sincerely  believed, 
to  be  perfectly  adapted  to  meet  the  emergency  in 
which  they  were  placed,  Uncle  Joseph  joined  his 
niece  in  examining  the  map.  A little  beyond 
the  post-town,  a cross-road  was  marked,  run- 
ning northward  at  right  angles  with  the  high- 
way that  led  to  Truro,  and  conducting  to  an- 
other road,  which  looked  large  enough  to  be  a 
coach-road,  and  which  led  through  a town  of 
sufficient  importance  to  have  its  name  printed 
in  capital  letters.  On  discovering  this,  Sarah 
proposed  that  they  should  follow  the  cross-road 
(which  did  not  appear  on  the  map  to  be  more  than 
five  or  six  miles  long)  on  foot,  abstaining  from 
taking  any  conveyance  until  they  had  arrived  at 
the  town  marked  in  capital  letters.  By  pursu- 
ing this  course  they  would  destroy  all  trace  of 
their  progress  after  leaving  the  post-town ; unless, 
indeed,  they  were  followed  on  foot  from  this 
place,  as  they  had  been  followed  over  the  moor. 
In  the  event  of  any  fresh  difficulty  of  that  sort 
occurring,  Sarah  had  no  better  remedy  to  propose 
than  lingering  on  the  road  till  after  nightfall, 
and  leaving  it  to  the  darkness  to  baffle  the  vigi- 
lance of  any  person  who  might  be  watching  in 
the  distance  to  see  where  they  went. 

Uncle  Joseph  shrugged  his  shoulders  resignedly 


THE  BEAD  SECBET. 


323 


when  his  niece  gave  her  reasons  for  wishing  to 
continue  the  journey  on  foot.  “ There  is  much 
tramping  through  dust,  and  much  looking  be- 
hind us,  and  much  spying  and  peeping  and  sus- 
pecting and  roundabout  walking  in  all  this,”  he 
said.  “It  is  by  no  means  so  easy,  my  child,  as 
making  sure  of  the  landlord,  and  sitting  at  our 
ease  on  the  cushions  of  the  stage-coach.  But  if 
you  will  have  it  so,  so  shall  it  be.  What  you 
please,  Sarah ; what  you  please — that  is  all  the 
opinion  of  my  own  that  I allow  myself  to  have 
till  we  are  back  again  at  Truro,  and  are  rested 
for  good  and  all  at  the  end  of  our  journey.” 

“At  the  end  of  your  journey,  uncle:  I dare 
not  say  at  the  end  of  mine.” 

Those  few  words  changed  the  old  man’s  face 
in  an  instant.  His  eyes  fixed  reproachfully  on 
his  niece,  his  ruddy  cheeks  lost  their  color,  his 
restless  hands  dropped  suddenly  to  his  sides. 
“Sarah!”  he  said,  in  a low,  quiet  tone,  which 
seemed  to  have  no  relation  to  the  voice  in  which 
he  spoke  on  ordinary  occasions — “Sarah!  have 
you  the  heart  to  leave  me  again?” 

“Have  I tli9  courage  to  stay  in  Cornwall? 
That  is  the  question  to  ask  me,  uncle.  If  I had 
only  my  own  heart  to  consult,  oh!  how  gladly  I 
should  live  under  your  roof — live  under  it,  if  you 
would  let  me,  to  my  dying  day ! But  my  lot  is 
not  cast  for  such  rest  and  such  happiness  as  that. 
The  fear  that  I have  of  being  questioned  by  Mrs. 
Frankland  drives  me  away  from  Porthgenna, 
away  from  Cornwall,  away  from  you.  Even 
my  dread  of  the  letter  being  found  is  hardly  so 


324 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


great  now  as  my  dread  of  being  traced  and  ques- 
tioned, I have  said  what  I ought  not  to  have 
said  already.  If  I find  myself  in  Mrs.  Frank- 
land’s  presence  again,  there  is  nothing  that  she 
might  not  draw  out  of  me.  Oh,  my  God!  to 
think  of  that  kind-hearted,  lovely  young  woman, 
who  brings  happiness  with  her  wherever  she 
goes,  bringing  terror  to  me!  Terror  when  her 
pitying  eyes  look  at  me;  terror  when  her  kind 
voice  speaks  to  me;  terror  when  her  tender  hand 
touches  mine!  Uncle!  when  Mrs.  Frankland 
comes  to  Porthgeuna,  the  very  children  will 
crowd  about  her — every  creature  in  that  poor 
village  will  be  drawn  toward  the  light  of  her 
beauty  and  her  goodness,  as  if  it  was  the  sun- 
shine of  Heaven  itself;  and  I — I,  of  all  living 
beings — must  shun  her  as  if  she  was  a pesti- 
lence! The  day  when  she  comes  into  Cornwall 
is  the  day  when  I must  go  out  of  it — the  day 
when  we  two  must  say  farewell.  Don’t,  don’t 
add  to  my  wretchedness  by  asking  me  if  I have 
the  heart  to  leave  you!  Fqr  my  dead  mother’s 
sake,  Uncle  Joseph,  believe  that  I am  grateful, 
believe  that  it  is  not  my  own  will  that  takes  me 
away  when  I leave  you  again.”  She  sank  down 
on  a sofa  near  her,  laid  her  head,  with  one  long, 
deep  sigh,  wearily  on  the  pillow,  and  spoke  no 
more. 

The  tears  gathered  thick  in  Uncle  Joseph’s 
eyes  as  he  sat  down  by  her  side.  He  took  one 
of  her  hands,  and  patted  and  stroked  it  as  though 
he  were  soothing  a little  child.  “I  will  bear  it 
as  well  as  I can,  Sarah,”  he  whispered,  faintly, 


THE  DEAD  SECRET.  325 

“and  I will  say  no  more.  You  will  write  to  me 
sometimes,  when  I am  left  all  alone?  You  will 
give  a little  time  to  Uncle  Joseph,  for  the  poor 
dead  mother’s  sake?” 

She  turned  toward  him  suddenly,  and  threw 
both  her  arms  round  his  neck  with  a passionate 
energy  that  was  strangely  at  variance  with  her 
naturally  quiet,  self- repressed  character.  “X  will 
write  often,  dear;  I will  write  always,”  she  whis- 
pered, with  her  head  on  his  bosom.  “If  I am 
ever  in  any  trouble  or  danger,  you  shall  know 
it.”  She  stopped  confusedly,  as  if  the  freedom 
of  her  own  words  and  actions  terrified  her,  un- 
clasped her  arms,  and,  turning  away  abruptly 
from  the  old  man,  hid  her  face  in  her  hands. 
The  tyranny  of  the  restraint  that  governed  her 
whole  life  was  all  expressed — how  sadly,  how 
eloquently! — in  that  one  little  action. 

Uncle  Joseph  rose  from  the  sofa,  and  walked 
gently  backward  and  forward  in  the  room,  look- 
ing anxiously  at  his  niece,  but  not  speaking  to 
her.  After  a while  the  servant  came  in  to  pre- 
pare the  table  for  supper.  It  was  a welcome  in- 
terruption, for  it  obliged  Sarah  to  make  an  effort 
to  recover  her  self-possession.  After  the  meal 
was  over,  the  uncle  and  niece  separated  at  once 
for  the  night,  without  venturing  to  exchange  an- 
other word  on  the  subject  of  their  approaching 
separation. 

When  they  met  the  next  morning  the  old  man 
had  not  recovered  his  spirits.  Although  he  tried 
to  speak  as  cheerfully  as  usual,  there  was  some- 
thing strangely  subdued  and  quiet  about  him  in 


826 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS, 


voice,  look  and  manner.  Sarah’s  heart  smote 
her  as  she  saw  how  sadly  he  was  altered  by  the 
prospect  of  their  parting.  She  said  a few  words 
of  consolation  and  hope ; bat  he  only  waved  his 
hand  negatively,  in  his  quaint  foreign  manner, 
and  hastened  out  of  the  room  to  find  the  landlord 
and  ask  for  the  bill. 

Soon  after  breakfast,  to  the  surprise  of  the  peo- 
ple at  the  inn,  they  set  forth  to  continue  their 
journey  on  foot,  Uncle  Joseph  carrying  his  knap- 
sack on  his  back,  and  his  niece’s  carpet-bag  in 
his  hand.  When  they  arrived  at  the  turning 
that  led  into  the  cross-road,  they  both  stopped 
and  looked  back.  This  time  they  saw  nothing 
to  alarm  them.  There  was  no  living  creature 
visible  on  the  broad  highway  over  which  they 
had  been  walking  for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour 
after  leaving  the  inn. 

4 4 The  way  is  clear,”  said  Uncle  Joseph,  as 
they  turned  into  the  cross-road.  “ Whatever 
might  have  happened  yesterday,  there  is  nobody 
following  us  now.” 

“Nobody  that  we  can  see,”  answered  Sarah. 
“But  I distrust  the  very  stones  by  the  road-side. 
Let  us  look  back  often,  uncle,  before  we  allow 
ourselves  to  feel  secure.  The  more  I think  of 
it,  the  more  I dread  the  snare  that  is  laid  for  us 
by  those  people  at  Porthgenna  Tower.” 

“You  say  us,  Sarah.  Why  should  they  lay  a 
snare  for  me?” 

“Because  they  have  seen  you  in  my  company. 
You  will  be  safer  from  them  when  we  are  parted; 
and  that  is  another  reason,  Uncle  Joseph,  why 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


327 


we  should  bear  the  misfortune  of  our  separation 
as  patiently  as  we  can.” 

“Are  you  going  far,  very  far  away,  Sarah, 
when  you  leave  me?” 

“I  dare  not  stop  on  my  journey  till  I can  feel 
that  I am  lost  in  the  great  world  of  London. 
Don’t  look  at  me  so  sadly!  I shall  never  for- 
get my  promise;  I shall  never  forget  to  write. 
I have  friends — not  friends  like  you,  but  still 
friends — to  whom  I can  go.  I can  feel  safe  from 
discovery  nowhere  but  in  London.  My  danger 
is  great — it  is,  it  is,  indeed ! I know,  from  what 
I have  seen  at  Porthgenna,  that  Mrs.  Frankland 
has  an  interest  already  in  finding  me  out;  and  I 
am  certain  that  this  interest  will  be  increased 
tenfold  when  she  hears  (as  she  is  sure  to  hear) 
of  what  happened  yesterday  in  the  house.  If 
they  should  trace  you  to  Truro,  oh,  be  careful, 
uncle!  be  careful  how  you  deal  with  them;  be 
careful  how  you  answer  their  questions!” 

“I  will  answer  nothing,  my  child.  But  tell 
me — for  I want  to  know  all  the  little  chances 
that  there  are  of  your  coming  back — tell  me,  if 
Mrs.  Frankland  finds  the  letter,  what  shall  you 
do  then?” 

At  that  question,  Sarah’s  hand,  which  had 
been  resting  languidly  on  her  uncle’s  arm  while 
they  walked  together,  closed  on  it  suddenly. 
“Even  if  Mrs.  Frankland  gets  into  the  Myrtle 
Room,”  she  said,  stopping  and  looking  affright- 
edly  about  her  while  she  replied,  “she  may  not 
find  the  letter.  It  is  folded  up  so  small;  it  is 
hidden  in  such  an  unlikely  place,” 


328 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


4 4 But  if  she  does  find  it?” 

“If  she  does,  there  will  be  more  reason  than 
ever  for  my  being  miles  and  miles  away.” 

As  she  gave  that  answer,  she  raised  both  her 
hands  to  her  heart  and  pressed  them  firmly  over 
it.  A slight  distortion  passed  rapidly  across  her 
features;  her  eyes  closed;  her  face  flushed  all 
over—  then  turned  paler  again  than  ever.  She 
drew  out  her  pocket-handkerchief,  and  passed 
it  several  times  over  her  face,  on  which  the  per- 
spiration had  gathered  thickly.  The  old  man, 
who  had  looked  behind  him  when  his  niece 
stopped,  under  the  impression  that  she  had  just 
seen  somebody  following  them,  observed  this 
latter  action,  and  asked  if  she  felt  too  hot.  She 
shook  her  head,  and  took  his  arm  again  to  go  on, 
breathing,  as  he  fancied,  with  some  difficulty. 
He  proposed  that  they  should  sit  down  by  the 
roadside  and  rest  a little;  but  she  only  an- 
swered, “Not  yet.”  So  they  went  on  for  an- 
other half-hour;  then  turned  to  look  behind 
them  again,  and,  still  seeing  nobody,  sat  down 
for  a little  while  to  rest  on  a bank  by  the  way- 
side. 

After  stopping  twice  more  at  convenient  rest- 
ing-places, they  reached  the  end  of  the  cross- 
road. On  the  highway  to  which  it  led  them 
they  were  overtaken  by  a man  driving  an  empty 
cart,  who  offered  to  give  them  a lift  as  far  as 
the  next  town.  They  accepted  the  proposal 
gratefully;  and,  arriving  at  the  town,  after 
a drive  of  half  an  hour,  were  set  down  at  the 
door  of  the  principal  inn.  Finding  on  inquiry 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


329 


at  this  place  that  they  were  too  late  for  the  coach, 
they  took  a private  conveyance  which  brought 
them  to  Truro  late  in  the  afternoon.  Through- 
out the  whole  of  the  journey,  from  the  time  when 
they  left  the  post-town  of  Porthgenna  to  the  time 
when  they  stopped,  by  Sarah’s  desire,  at  the 
coach-office  in  Truro,  they  had  seen  nothing  to 
excite  the  smallest  suspicion  that  their  move- 
ments were  being  observed.  None  of  the  people 
whom  they  saw  in  the  inhabited  places,  or  whom 
they  passed  on  the  road,  appeared  to  take  more 
than  the  most  casual  notice  of  them. 

It  was  five  o’clock  when  they  entered  the  office 
at  Truro  to  ask  about  conveyances  running  in 
the  direction  of  Exeter.  They  were  informed 
that  a coach  would  start  in  an  hour’s  time,  and 
that  another  coach  would  pass  through  Truro  at 
eight  o’clock  the  next  morning. 

“You  will  not  go  to-night?”  pleaded  Uncle 
Joseph.  “You  will  wait,  my  child,  and  rest 
with  me  till  to-morrow?” 

“I  had  better  go,  uncle,  while  I have  some 
little  resolution  left,”  was  the  sad  answer. 

“But  you  are  so  pale,  so  tired,  so  weak.” 

“I  shall  never  be  stronger  than  I am  now. 
Don’t  set  my  own  heart  against  me!  It  is  hard 
enough  to  go  without  that.” 

Uncle  Joseph  sighed,  and  said  no  more.  He 
led  the  way  across  the  road  and  down  the  by- 
street to  his  house.  The  cheerful  man  in  the 
shop  was  polishing  a piece  of  wood  behind  the 
counter,  sitting  in  the  same  position  in  which 
Sarah  had  seen  him  when  she  first  looked  through 


330 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


the  window  on  her  arrival  at  Truro.  He  had 
good  news  for  his  master  of  orders  received,  but 
Uncle  Joseph  listened  absently  to  all  that  his 
shopman  said,  and  hastened  into  the  little  back 
parlor  without  the  faintest  reflection  of  its  cus- 
tomary smile  on  his  face.  “If  I had  no  shop  and 
no  orders,  I might  go  away  with  you,  Sarah,” 
he  said  when  he  and  his  niece  were  alone.  “ Aie! 
Aie!  the  setting  out  on  this  journey  has  been  the 
only  happy  part  of  it.  Sit  down  and  rest,  my 
child.  1 must  put  my  best  face  upon  it,  and  get 
you  some  tea.” 

When  the  tea-tray  had  been  placed  on  the 
table,  he  left  the  room,  and  returned,  after  an 
absence  of  some  little  time,  with  a basket  in  his 
hand.  When  the  porter  came  to  carry  the  lug- 
gage to  the  coach-office,  he  would  not  allow  the 
basket  to  be  taken  away  at  the  same  time,  but 
sat  down  and  placed  it  between  his  feet  while  he 
occupied  himself  in  pouring  out  a cup  of  tea  for 
his  niece. 

The  musical  box  still  hung  at  his  side  in  its 
traveling  case  of  leather.  As  soon  as  he  had 
poured  out  the  cup  of  tea,  he  unbuckled  the 
strap,  removed  the  covering  from  the  box,  and 
placed  it  on  the  table  near  him.  His  eyes  wan- 
dered hesitatingly  toward  Sarah,  as  he  did  this; 
he  leaned  forward,  his  lips  trembling  a little,  his 
hand  trifling  uneasily  with  the  empty  leather 
case  that  now  lay  on  his  knees,  and  said  to  her 
in  low,  unsteady  tones: 

“You  will  hear  a little  farewell  song  of  Mo- 
zart? It  may  be  a long  time,  Sarah,  before  he 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


331 


can  play  to  you  again.  A little  farewell  song, 
my  child,  before  you  go?” 

His  hand  stole  up  gently  from  the  leather  case 
to  the  table,  and  set  the  box  playing  the  same  air 
that  Sarah  had  heard  on  the  evening  when  she 
entered  the  parlor,  after  her  journey  from  Somer- 
setshire and  found  him  sitting  alone  listening  to 
the  music.  What  depths  of  sorrow  there  were 
now  in  those  few  simple  notes!  What  mournful 
memories  of  past  times  gathered  and  swelled  in 
the  heart  at  the  bidding  of  that  one  little  plain- 
tive melody ! Sarah  could  not  summon  the  cour- 
age to  lift  her  eyes  to  the  old  man’s  face — they 
might  have  betrayed  to  him  that  she  was  think- 
ing of  the  days  when  the  box  that  he  treasured 
so  dearly  played  the  air  they  were  listening  to 
now  by  the  bedside  of  his  dying  child. 

The  stop  had  not  been  set,  and  the  melody, 
after  it  had  come  to  an  end,  began  again.  Bat 
now,  after  the  first  few  bars,  the  notes  succeeded 
one  another  more  and  more  slowly — the  air  grew 
less  and  less  recognizable — dropped  at  last  to  three 
notes,  following  each  other  at  long  intervals — 
then  ceased  altogether.  The  chain  that  governed 
the  action  of  the  machinery  had  all  run  out;  Mo- 
zart’s farewell  song  was  silenced  on  a sudden, 
like  a voice  that  had  broken  down. 

The  old  man  started,  looked  earnestly  at  his 
niece,  and  threw  the  leather  case  over  the  box  as 
if  he  desired  to  shut  out  the  sight  of  it.  “The 
music  stopped  so,”  he  whispered  to  himself,  in 
his  own  language,  “when  little  Joseph  died! 
Don’t  go!”  he  added,  quickly,  in  English,  al- 


332 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


most  before  Sarah  had  time  to  feel  surprised  at 
the  singular  change  that  had  taken  place  in  his 
voice  and  manner.  “ Don’t  go ! Think  better  of 
it,  and  stop  with  me.’5 

“I  have  no  choice,  uncle,  but  to  leave  you — 
indeed,  indeed  I have  not!  You  don’t  think  me 
ungrateful?  Comfort  me  at  the  last  moment  by 
telling  me  that!” 

He  pressed  her  hand  in  silence  and  kissed  her 
on  both  cheeks.  “My  heart  is  very  heavy  for 
you,  Sarah,”  he  said.  “The  fear  has  come  to 
me  that  it  is  not  for  your  own  good  that  you  are 
going  away  from  Uncle  Joseph  now!” 

“I  have  no  choice,”  she  sadly  repeated'— “no 
choice  but  to  leave  you.” 

“It  is  time,  then,  to  get  the  parting  over.’* 
The  cloud  of  doubt  and  fear  that  had  altered  his 
face,  from  the  moment  when  the  music  came  to 
its  untimely  end,  seemed  to  darken,  when  he  had 
said  those  words.  He  took  up  the  basket  which 
he  had  kept  so  carefully  at  his  feet,  and  led  the 
way  out  in  silence. 

They  were  barely  in  time;  the  driver  was 
mounting  to  his  seat  when  they  got  to  the 
coach-office.  “God  preserve  you,  my  child,  and 
send  you  back  to  me  soon,  safe  and  well.  Take 
the  basket  on  your  lap;  there  are  some  little 
things  in  it  for  your  journey.”  His  voice  fal- 
tered at  the  last  word,  and  Sarah  felt  his  lips 
pressed  on  her  hand.  The  next  instant  the  door 
was  closed,  and  she  saw  him  dimly  through  her 
tears  standing  among  the  idlers  on  the  pavement, 
who  were  waiting  to  see  the  coach  drive  off* 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


333 


By  the  time  they  were  a little  way  out  of  the 
town  she  was  able  to  dry  her  eyes  and  look  into 
the  basket.  It  contained  a pot  of  jam  and  a horn 
spoon,  a small  inlaid  work-box  from  the  stock  in 
the  shop,  a piece  of  foreign-looking  cheese,  a 
French  roll,  and  a little  paper  packet  of  money, 
with  the  words  “Don’t  be  angry”  written  on  it, 
in  Uncle  Joseph’s  hand.  Sarah  closed  the  cover 
of  the  basket  again,  and  drew  dow;n  her  veil. 
She  had  not  felt  the  sorrow  of  the  parting  in  all 
its  bitterness  until  that  moment.  Oh,  how  hard 
it  was  to  be  banished  from  the  sheltering  home 
which  was  offered  to  her  by  the  one  friend  she 
had  left  in  the  world! 

While  that  thought  was  in  her  mind,  the  old 
man  was  just  closing  the  door  of  his  lonely  par- 
lor. His  eyes  wandered  to  the  tea-tray  on  the 
table  and  to  Sarah’s  empty  cup,  and  he  whis- 
pered to  himself  in  his  own  language  again — 

“The  music  stopped  so  when  little  Joseph 
died!” 


BOOK  V. 


CHAPTER  I. 

AN  OLD  FRIEND  AND  A NEW  SCHEME. 

In  declaring,  positively,  that  the  boy  whom 
she  had  seen  digging  on  the  moor  had  followed 
her  uncle  and  herself  to  the  post-town  of  Forth- 


334 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


genna,  Sarah  had  asserted  the  literal  truth.  Ja- 
cob had  tracked  them  to  the  inn,  had  waited  a 
little  while  about  the  door,  to  ascertain  if  there 
was  any  likelihood  of  their  continuing  their 
journey  that  evening,  and  had  then  returned  to 
Porthgenna  Tower  to  make  his  report,  and  to 
claim  his  promised  reward. 

The  same  night,  the  housekeeper  and  the  stew- 
ard demoted  themselves  to  the  joint  production  of 
a letter  to  Mrs.  Frankland,  informing  her  of  all 
that  had  taken  place,  from  the  time  when  the 
visitors  first  made  their  appearance,  to  the  time 
when  the  gardener’s  boy  had  followed  them  to 
the  door  of  the  inn.  The  composition  was  plen- 
tifully garnished  throughout  with  the  flowers  of 
Mr.  Munder’s  rhetoric,  and  was,  by  a necessary 
consequence,  inordinately  long  as  a narrative, 
and  hopelessly  confused  as  a statement  of  facts. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  say  that  the  letter,  with 
all  its  faults  and  absurdities,  was  read  by  Mrs. 
Frankland  with  the  deepest  interest.  Her  hus- 
band and  Mr.  Orridge,  to  both  of  whom  she  com- 
municated its  contents,  were  as  much  amazed 
and  perplexed  by  it  as  she  was  herself.  Al- 
though the  discovery  of  Mrs.  Jazeph’s  departure 
for  Cornwall  had  led  them  to  consider  it  within 
the  range  of  possibility  that  she  might  appear  at 
Porthgenna,  and  although  the  housekeeper  had 
been  written  to  by  Rosamond  under  the  influ- 
ence of  that  idea,  neither  she  nor  her  husband 
were  quite  prepared  for  such  a speedy  confirma- 
tion of  their  suspicions  as  they  had  now  received. 
Their  astonishment,  however,  on  first  ascertain- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


335 


in g the  general  purport  of  the  letter,  was  as  noth- 
ing compared  with  their  astonishment  when  they 
came  to  those  particular  passages  in  it  which 
referred  to  Uncle  Joseph.  The  fresh  element  of 
complication  imparted  to  the  thickening  mystery 
of  Mrs.  Jazeph  and  the  Myrtle  Room,  by  the  en- 
trance of  the  foreign  stranger  on  the  scene,  and 
by  his  intimate  connection  with  the  extraordi- 
nary proceedings  that  had  taken  place  in  the 
house,  fairly  baffled  them  all.  The  letter  was 
read  again  and  again;  was  critically  dissected 
paragraph  by  paragraph;  was  carefully  anno- 
tated by  the  doctor,  for  the  purpose  of  extricat- 
ing all  the  facts  that  it  contained  from  the  mass 
of  unmeaning  words  in  which  Mr.  Munder  had 
artfully  and  lengthily  involved  them;  and  was 
finally  pronounced,  after  all  the  pains  that  had 
been  taken  to  render  it  intelligible,  to  be  the 
most  mysterious  and  bewildering  document  that 
mortal  pen  had  ever  produced. 

The  first  practical  suggestion,  after  the  letter 
had  been  laid  aside  in  despair,  emanated  from 
Rosamond.  She  proposed  that  her  husband  and 
herself  (the  baby  included,  as  a matter  of  course) 
should  start  at  once  for  Porthgenna,  to  question 
the  servants  minutely  about  the  proceedings  of 
Mrs.  Jazeph  and  the  foreign  stranger  who  had 
accompanied  her,  and  to  examine  the  premises 
on  the  north  side  of  the  house,  with  a view  to 
discovering  a clew  to  the  locality  of  the  Myrtle 
Room,  while  events  were  still  fresh  in  the  mem- 
ories of  witnesses.  The  plan  thus  advocated, 
however  excellent  in  itself,  was  opposed  by  Mr. 


336 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Orridge  on  medical  grounds.  Mrs.  Frankland 
had  caught  cold  by  exposing  herself  too  careless- 
ly to  the  air,  on  first  leaving  her  room,  and  the 
doctor  refused  to  grant  her  permission  to  travel 
for  at  least  a week  to  come,  if  not  for  a longer 
period. 

The  next  proposal  came  from  Mr.  Frankland. 
He  declared  it  to  be  perfectly  clear  to  his  mind 
that  the  only  chance  of  penetrating  the  mystery 
of  the  Myrtle  Room  rested  entirely  on  the  discov- 
ery of  some  means  of  communicating  with  Mrs. 
Jazeph.  He  suggested  that  they  should  not 
trouble  themselves  to  think  of  anything  uncon- 
nected with  the  accomplishment  of  this  purpose; 
and  he  proposed  that  the  servant  then  in  attend- 
ance on  him  at  West  Winston — a man  who  had 
been  in  his  employment  for  many  years,  and 
whose  zeal,  activity,  and  intelligence  could  be 
thoroughly  depended  on — should  be  sent  to  Porth- 
genna  forthwith,  to  start  the  necessary  inquiries, 
and  to  examine  the  premises  carefully  on  the 
north  side  of  the  house. 

This  advice  was  immediately  acted  on.  Ac 
an  hour’s  notice  the  servant  started  for  Corn- 
wall, thoroughly  instructed  as  to  what  he  was  to 
do,  and  well  supplied  with  money,  in  case  he 
found  it  necessary  to  employ  many  persons  in 
making  the  proposed  inquiries.  In  due  course 
of  time  he  sent  a report  of  his  proceedings  to  his 
master.  It  proved  to  be  of  a most  discouraging 
nature. 

All  trace  of  Mrs.  Jazeph  and  her  companion 
had  been  lost  at  the  post-town  of  Porthgenna. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


337 


Investigations  had  been  made  in  every  direction, 
hut  no  reliable  information  had  been  obtained. 
People  in  totally  different  parts  of  the  country 
declared  readily  enough  that  they  had  seen  two 
persons  answering  to  the  description  of  the  lady 
in  the  dark  dress  and  the  old  foreigner;  but 
when  they  were  called  upon  to  state  the  direc- 
tion in  which  the  two  strangers  were  traveling, 
the  answers  received  turned  out  to  be  of  the  most 
puzzling  and  contradictory  kind.  No  pains  had 
been  spared,  no  necessary  expenditure  of  money 
had  been  grudged;  but,  so  far,  no  results  of  the 
slightest  value  had  been  obtained.  Whether  the 
lady  and  the  foreigner  had  gone  east,  west,  north, 
or  south,  was  more  than  Mr.  Frankland’s  serv- 
ant, at  the  present  stage  of  the  proceedings,  could 
take  it  on  himself  to  say. 

The  report  of  the  examination  of  the  north 
rooms  was  not  more  satisfactory.  Here,  again, 
nothing  of  any  importance  could  be  discovered. 
The  servant  had  ascertained  that  there  were 
twenty-two  rooms  on  the  uninhabited  side  of 
the  house — six  on  the  ground-floor  opening  into 
the  deserted  garden,  eight  on  the  first  floor,  and 
eight  above  that,  on  the  second  story.  He  had 
examined  all  the  doors  carefully  from  top  to  bot- 
tom, and  had  come  to  the  conclusion  that  none 
of  them  had  been  opened.  The  evidence  af- 
forded by  the  lady’s  own  actions  led  to  noth- 
ing. She  had,  if  the  testimony  of  the  serv- 
ant coaid  be  trusted,  dropped  the  keys  on  the 
floor  of  the  hall,  She  was  found,  as  the  house- 
keeper and  the  steward  asserted,  lying,  in  a faint- 


338 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


ing  condition,  at  the  top  of  the  landing  of  the 
first  flight  of  stairs.  The  door  opposite  to  her, 
in  this  position,  showed  no  more  traces  of  hav- 
ing been  recently  opened  than  any  of  the  other 
doors  of  the  other  twenty- one  rooms.  "Whether 
the  room  to  which  she  wished  to  gain  access  was 
one  of  the  eight  on  the  first  floor,  or  whether  she 
had  fainted  on  her  way  up  to  the  higher  range 
of  eight  rooms  on  the  second  floor,  it  was  impos- 
sible to  determine. 

The  only  conclusions  that  could  be  fairly  drawn 
from  the  events  that  had  taken  place  in  the  house 
were  two  in  number.  First,  it  might  be  taken 
for  granted  that  the  lady  had  been  disturbed  be- 
fore she  had  been  able  to  use  the  keys  to  gain 
admission  to  the  Myrtle  Room.  Secondly,  it 
might  be  assumed,  from  the  position  in  which 
she  was  found  on  the  stairs,  and  from  the  evi- 
dence relating  to  the  dropping  of  the  keys,  that 
the  Myrtle  Room  was  not  on  the  ground-floor, 
but  was  one  of  the  sixteen  rooms  situated  on  the 
first  and  second  stories.  Beyond  this  the  writer 
of  the  report  had  nothing  further  to  mention,  ex- 
cept that  he  had  ventured  to  decide  on  waiting  at 
Porthgenna,  in  the  event  of  his  master  having 
any  further  instructions  to  communicate. 

What  was  to  be  done  next?  That  was  neces- 
sarily the  first  question  suggested  by  the  serv- 
ant’s announcement  of  the  unsuccessful  result  of 
his  inquiries  at  Porthgenna.  How  it  was  to  be 
answered  was  not  very  easy  to  discover.  Mrs. 
Frankland  had  nothing  to  suggest,  Mr.  Frank- 
land  had  nothing  to  suggest,  the  doctor  had 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


339 


nothing  to  suggest.  The  more  industriously 
they  all  three  hunted  through  their  minds  for  a 
new  idea,  the  less  chance  there  seemed  to  be  of 
their  succeeding  in  finding  one.  At  last,  Rcsa- 
mond  proposed,  in  despair,  that  they  should  seek 
the  advice  of  some  fourth  person  who  could  be 
depended  on;  and  asked  her  husband’s  permis- 
sion to  write  a confidential  statement  of  their 
difficulties  to  the  vicar  of  Long  Beekley.  Doc- 
tor Chennery  was  their  oldest  friend  and  adviser; 
he  had  known  them  both  as  children;  he  was 
well  acquainted  with  the  history  of  their  fami- 
lies; he  felt  a fatherly  interest  in  their  fortunes; 
and  he  possessed  that  invaluable  quality  of  plain, 
clear-headed  common-sense  which  marked  him 
out  as  the  very  man  who  would  be  most  likely, 
as  well  as  most  willing,  to  help  them. 

Mr.  Frankland  readily  agreed  to  his  wife’s 
suggestion;  and  Rosamond  wrote  immediately 
to  Doctor  Chennery,  informing  him  of  every- 
thing that  had  happened  since  Mrs.  Jazeph’s 
first  introduction  to  her,  and  asking  him  for  his 
opinion  on  the  course  of  proceeding  which  it 
would  be  best  for  her  husband  and  herself  to 
adopt  in  the  difficulty  in  which  they  were  now 
placed.  By  return  of  post  an  answer  was  re- 
ceived, which  amply  justified  Rosamond’s  reli- 
ance on  her  old  friend.  Doctor  Chennery  not 
only  sympathized  heartily  with  the  eager  curi- 
osity which  Mrs.  Jazeph’s  language  and  con- 
duct had  excited  in  the  mind  of  his  correspond- 
ent, but  he  had  also  a plan  of  his  own  to  propose 
for  ascertaining  the  position  of  the  Myrtle  Room, 


340 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


The  vicar  prefaced  his  suggestion  by  express- 
ing a strong  opinion  against  instituting  any  fur- 
ther search  after  Mrs.  Jazeph,  Judging  by  the 
circumstances,  as  they  were  related  to  him,  he 
considered  that  it  would  be  the  merest  waste  of 
time  to  attempt  to  find  her  out.  Accordingly  he 
passed  from  that  part  of  the  subject  at  once,  and 
devoted  himself  to  the  consideration  of  the  more 
important  question — How  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frank- 
land  were  to  proceed  in  the  endeavor  to  discover 
for  themselves  the  mystery  of  the  Myrtle  Room? 

On  this  point  Doctor  Chennery  entertained  a 
conviction  of  the  strongest  kind,  and  he  warned 
Rosamond  beforehand  that  she  must  expect  to  be 
very  much  surprised  when  he  came  to  the  state- 
ment of  it.  Taking  it  for  granted  that  she  and 
her  husband  could  not  hope  to  find  out  where  the 
room  was,  unless  they  were  assisted  by  some  one 
better  acquainted  than  themselves  with  the  old 
local  arrangements  of  the  interior  of  Porthgenna 
Tower,  the  vicar  declared  it  to  be  his  opinion 
that  there  was  only  one  individual  living  who 
could  afford  them  the  information  they  wanted, 
and  that  this  person  was  no  other  than  Rosa- 
mond’s own  cross-grained  relative,  Andrew 
Treverton. 

This  startling  opinion  Doctor  Chennery  sup- 
ported by  two  reasons.  In  the  first  place,  An- 
drew was  the  only  surviving  member  of  the  elder 
generation  who  had  lived  at  Porthgenna  Tower 
in  the  by-gone  days  when  all  traditions  connected 
with  the  north  rooms  were  still  fresh  in  the  mem- 
ories of  the  inhabitants  of  the  house*  The  people 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


341 


who  lived  in  it  now  were  strangers,  who  had 
been  placed  in  their  situations  by  Mr.  Frank- 
land’s  father;  and  the  servants  employed  in 
former  days  by  Captain  Treverton  were  dead  or 
dispersed.  The  one  available  person,  therefore, 
whose  recollections  were  likely  to  be  of  any  serv- 
ice to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland,  was  indisputa- 
bly the  brother  of  the  old  owner  of  Porthgenna 
Tower. 

In  the  second  place,  there  was  the  chance,  even 
if  Andrew  Treverton’s  memory  was  not  to  be 
trusted,  that  he  might  possess  written  or  printed 
information  relating  to  the  locality  of  the  Myrtle 
Room.  By  his  father’s  will — which  had  been 
made  when  Andrew  was  a young  man  just  go- 
ing to  college,  and  which  had  not  been  altered 
at  the  period  of  his  departure  from  England,  or 
at  any  after-time — he  had  inherited  the  choice 
old  collection  of  books  in  the  library  at  Porth- 
genna. Supposing  that  he  still  preserved  these 
heirlooms,  it  was  highly  probable  that  there 
might  exist  among  them  some  plan,  or  some  de- 
scription of  the  house  as  it  was  in  the  olden  time, 
which  would  supply  all  the  information  that  was 
wanted.  Here,  then,  was  another  valid  reason 
for  believing  that  if  a clew  to  the  position  of  the 
Myrtle  Room  existed  anywhere,  Andrew  Trever- 
ton was  the  man  to  lay  his  hand  on  it. 

Assuming  it,  therefore,  to  be  proved  that  the 
surly  old  misanthrope  was  the  only  person  who 
could  be  profitably  applied  to  for  the  requisite 
information,  the  next  question  was,  How  to  com- 
municate with  him?  The  vicar  understood  per- 


342 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


fectly  that  after  Andrew’s  inexcusably  heartless 
conduct  toward  her  father  and  mother,  it  was 
quite  impossible  for  Rosamond  to  address  any 
direct  application  to  him.  The  obstacle,  how- 
ever, might  be  surmounted  by  making  the  neces- 
sary communication  proceed  from  Doctor  Chen- 
nery.  Heartily  as  the  vicar  disliked  Andrew 
Treverton  personally,  and  strongly  as  he  disap- 
proved of  the  old  misanthrope’s  principles,  he  was 
willing  to  set  aside  his  own  antipathies  and  ob- 
jections to  serve  the  interests  of  his  young  friends; 
and  he  expressed  his  perfect  readiness  to  write 
and  recall  himself  to  Andrew’s  recollection,  and 
to  ask,  as  if  it  was  a matter  of  antiquarian  curi- 
osity, for  information  on  the  subject  of  the  north 
side  of  Porthgenna  Tower— including,  of  course, 
a special  request  to  be  made  acquainted  with  the 
names  by  which  the  rooms  had  been  individually 
known  in  former  days. 

In  making  this  offer,  the  vicar  frankly  ac- 
knowledged that  he  thought  the  chances  were 
very  much  against  his  receiving  any  answer  at 
all  to  his  application,  no  matter  how  carefully 
he  might  word  it,  with  a view  to  humoring  An- 
drew’s churlish  peculiarities.  However,  consid- 
ering that,  in  the  present  posture  of  affairs,  a 
forlorn  hope  was  better  than  no  hope  at  all,  he 
thought  it  was  at  least  worth  while  to  make  the 
attempt  on  the  plan  which  he  had  just  suggested. 
If  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland  could  devise  any  bet- 
ter means  of  opening  communications  with  An- 
drew Treverton,  or  if  they  had  discovered  any 
new  method  of  their  own  for  obtaining  the  in- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


343 


formation  of  which  they  stood  in  need,  Doctor 
Chennery  was  perfectly  ready  to  set  aside  his 
own  opinions  and  to  defer  to  theirs. 

A very  brief  consideration  of  the  vicar’s 
friendly  letter  convinced  Rosamond  and  her 
husband  that  they  had  no  choice  but  gratefully 
to  accept  the  offer  which  it  contained.  The 
chances  were  certainly  against  the  success  of 
the  proposed  application;  but  were  they  more 
unfavorable  than  the  chances  against  the  success 
of  any  unaided  investigations  at  Porthgenna? 
There  was,  at  least,  a faint  hope  of  Doctor  Chen- 
nery’s  request  for  information  producing  some 
results ; but  there  seemed  no  hope  at  all  of  pene- 
trating a mystery  connected  with  one  room  only, 
by  dint  of  wandering,  in  perfect  ignorance  of 
what  to  search  for,  through  two  ranges  of  rooms 
which  reached  the  number  of  sixteen.  Influ- 
enced by  these  considerations,  Rosamond  wrote 
back  to  the  vicar  to  thank  him  for  his  kindness, 
and  to  beg  that  he  would  communicate  with  An- 
drew Treverton,  as  he  had  proposed,  without  a 
moment’s  delay. 

Doctor  Chennery  immediately  occupied  him- 
self in  the  composition  of  the  important  letter, 
taking  care  to  make  the  application  on  purely 
antiquarian  grounds,  and  accounting  for  his  as- 
sumed curiosity  on  the  subject  of  the  interior  of 
Porthgenna  Tower  by  referring  to  his  former 
knowledge  of  the  Treverton  family,  and  to  his 
natural  interest  in  the  old  house  with  which  their 
name  and  fortunes  had  been  so  closely  connected. 
After  appealing  to  Andrew’s  early  recollections 


344 


WORKS  OP  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


for  the  information  that  he  wanted,  he  ventured 
a step  further,  and  alluded  to  the  library  of  old 
books,  mentioning  his  own  idea  that  there  might 
be  found  among  them  some  plan  or  verbal  de- 
scription of  the  house,  which  might  prove  to  be 
of  the  greatest  service,  in  the  event  of  Mr.  Trev- 
erton’s  memory  not  having  preserved  all  par- 
ticulars in  connection  with  the  names  and  posi- 
tions of  the  north  rooms.  In  conclusion,  he  took 
the  liberty  of  mentioning  that  the  loan  of  any 
document  of  the  kind  to  which  he  had  alluded, 
or  the  permission  to  have  extracts  made  from  it, 
would  be  thankfully  acknowledged  as  a great 
favor  conferred;  and  he  added,  in  a postscript, 
that,  in  order  to  save  Mr.  Treverton  all  trouble, 
a messenger  would  call  for  any  answer  he  might 
be  disposed  to  give  the  day  after  the  delivery  of 
the  letter.  Having  completed  the  application  in 
these  terms,  the  vicar  inclosed  it  under  cover  to 
his  man  of  business  in  London,  with  directions 
that  it  was  to  be  delivered  by  a trustworthy  per- 
son, and  that  the  messenger  was  to  call  again  the 
next  morning  to  know  if  there  was  any  answer. 

Three  days  after  this  letter  had  been  dispatched 
to  its  destination — at  which  time  no  tidings  of 
any  sort  had  been  received  from  Doctor  Chen- 
nery — Rosamond  at  last  obtained  her  medical 
attendant’s  permission  to  travel.  Taking  leave 
of  Mr.  Orridge,  with  many  promises  to  let  him 
know  what  progress  they  made  toward  discovering 
the  Myrtle  Room,  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Franklaud  turned 
their  backs  on  West  Winston,  and  for  the  third 
time  started  on  the  journey  to  Porthgenna  Tower. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


345 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  END. 

It  was  baking-day  in  the  establishment  of  Mr. 
Andrew  Treverton  when  the  messenger  intrusted 
with  Doctor  Chennery’s  letter  found  his  way  to 
the  garden  door  of  the  cottage  at  Bayswater. 
After  he  had  rung  three  times,  he  heard  a gruff 
voice,  on  the  other  side  of  the  wall,  roaring  at 
him  to  let  the  bell  alone,  and  asking  who  he  was, 
and  what  the  devil  he  wanted. 

“A  letter  for  Mr.  Treverton,”  said  the  mes- 
senger, nervously  backing  away  from  the  door 
while  he  spoke. 

“ Chuck  it  over  the  wall,  then,  and  be  off  with 
you!”  answered  the  gruff  voice. 

The  messenger  obeyed  both  injunctions.  He 
was  a meek,  modest,  elderly  man;  and  when 
Nature  mixed  up  the  ingredients  of  his  disposi- 
tion, the  capability  of  resenting  injuries  was  not 
among  them. 

The  man  with  the  gruff  voice — or,  to  put  it  in 
plainer  terms,  the  man  Shrowl — picked  up  the 
letter,  weighed  it  in  his  hand,  looked  at  the  ad- 
dress on  it  with  an  expression  of  contemptuous 
curiosity  in  his  bull-terrier  eyes,  put  it  in  his 
waistcoat  pocket,  and  walked  around  lazily  to 
the  kitchen  entrance  of  the  cottage. 

In  the  apartment  which  would  probably  have 
been  called  the  pantry,  if  the  house  had  belonged 


346 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


to  civilized  tenants,  a hand-mill  had  been  set  up; 
and,  at  the  moment  when  Shrowl  made  his  way 
to  this  room,  Mr.  Treverton  was  engaged  in  as- 
serting bis  independence  of  all  the  millers  in 
England  by  grinding  his  own  corn.  He  paused 
irritably  in  turning  the  handle  of  the  mill  when 
his  servant  appeared  at  the  door. 

“What  do  you  come  here  for?”  he  asked. 
“When  the  flour’s  ready,  I’ll  call  for  you. 
Don’t  let’s  look  at  each  other  oftener  than  we 
can  help!  I never  set  eyes  on  you,  Shrowl,  but 
I ask  myself  whether,  in  the  whole  range  of  cre- 
ation, there  is  any  animal  as  ugly  as  man?  I 
saw  a cat  this  morning  on  the  garden  wall,  and 
there  wasn’t  a single  point  in  which  you  would 
bear  comparison  with  him.  The  cat’s  eyes  were 
clear — yours  are  muddy.  The  cat’s  nose  was 
’straight— yours  is  crooked.  The  cat’s  whiskers 
were  clean — yours  are  dirty.  The  cat’s  coat  fit- 
ted him — yours  hangs  about  you  like  a sack.  I 
tell  you  again,  Shrowl,  the  species  to  which  you 
(and  I)  belong  is  the  ugliest  on  the  whole  face  of 
creation.  Don’t  let  us  revolt  each  other  by  keep- 
ing in  company  any  longer.  Go  away,  you  last, 
worst,  infirmest  freak  of  Nature — go  away!” 

Shrowl  listened  to  this  complimentary  address 
with  an  aspect  of  surly  serenity.  When  it  had 
come  to  an  end,  he  took  the  letter  from  his  waist- 
coat pocket,  without  condescending  to  make  any 
reply.  He  was,  by  this  time,  too  thoroughly 
conscious  of  his  own  power  over  his  master  to 
attach  the  smallest  importance  to  anything  Mr. 
Treverton  might  say  to  him. 


THE  BEAD  SECRET. 


347 


“Now  you’ve  done  your  talking,  suppose  you 
take  a look  at  that,”  said  Shrowl,  dropping  the 
letter  carelessly  on  a deal  table  by  his  master’s 
side.  “It  isn’t  often  that  people  trouble  them- 
selves to  send  letters  to  you — is  it?  I wonder 
whether  your  niece  has  took  a fancy  to  write  to 
you?  It  was  put  in  the  papers  the  other  day 
that  she’d  got  a son  and  heir.  Open  the  letter, 
and  see  if  it’s  an  invitation  to  the  christening. 
The  company  would  be  sure  to  want  your  smil- 
ing face  at  the  table  to  make  ’em  jolly.  Just  let 
me  take  a grind  at  the  mill,  while  you  go  out 
and  get  a silver  mug.  The  son  and  heir  expects 
a mug,  you  know,  and  his  nurse  expects  half  a 
guinea,  and  his  mamma  expects  all  your  fortune. 
What  a pleasure  to  make  the  three  innocent  cree- 
turs  happy!  It’s  shocking  to  see  you  pulling 
wry  faces,  like  that,  over  the  letter.  Lord! 
lord!  where  can  all  your  natural  affection  have 
gone  to? — ” 

“If  I only  knew  where  to  lay  my  hand  on  a 
gag,  I’d  cram  it  into  your  infernal  mouth!”  cried 
Mr.  Treverton.  “How  dare  you  talk  tome  about 
my  niece?  You  wretch!  you  know  I hate  her 
for  her  mother’s  sake.  What  do  you  mean  by 
harping  perpetually  on  my  fortune?  Sooner  than 
leave  it  to  the  play-actress’s  child,  I’d  even  leave 
it  to  you;  and  sooner  than  leave  it  to  you,  I 
would  take  every  farthing  of  it  out  in  a boat, 
and  bury  it  forever  at  the  bottom  of  the  sea!” 
Venting  his  dissatisfaction  in  these  strong  terms, 
Mr.  Treverton  snatched  up  Doctor  Chennery’s 
letter,  and  tore  it  open  in  a humor  which  by  no 


348  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

means  promised  favorably  for  the  success  of  the 
vicar’s  application. 

He  read  the  letter  with  an  ominous  scowl  on 
his  face,  which  grew  darker  and  darker  as  he  got 
nearer  and  nearer  to  the  end.  When  he  came  to 
the  signature  his  humor  changed  and  he  laughed 
sardonically.  ‘ 4 Faithfully  yours,  Robert  Chen- 
nery,”  he  repeated  to  himself.  “Yes!  faithfully 
mine,  if  I humor  your  whim.  And  what  if  I 
don’t,  parson?”  He  paused,  and  looked  at  the 
letter  again,  the  scowl  reappearing  on  his  face 
as  he  did  so.  “There’s  a lie  of  some  kind  lurk- 
ing about  under  these  lines  of  fair  writing,”  he 
muttered  suspiciously.  ieI  am  not  one  of  his 
congregation:  the  law  gives  him  no  privilege  of 
imposing  on  me . What  does  he  mean  by  mak- 
ing the  attempt?”  He  stopped  again,  reflected 
a little,  looked  up  suddenly  at  Shrowl,  and  said 
to  him. 

“Have  you  lighted  the  oven  fire  yet?’* 

“No,  I hav’n’t,”  answered  Shrowl. 

Mr.  Treverton  examined  the  letter  for  the  third 
time — hesitated — then  slowly  tore  it  in  half,  and 
tossed  the  two  pieces  over  contemptuously  to  his 
servant. 

“Light  the  fire  at  once,”  he  said.  “And,  if 
you  want  paper,  there  it  is  for  you.  Stop!”  h© 
added,  after  Shrowl  had  picked  up  the  torn  let- 
ter. “If  anybody  comes  here  to-morrow  morn- 
ing to  ask  for  an  answer,  tell  them  I gave  you 
the  letter  to  light  the  fire  with,  and  say  that’s 
the  answer.”  With  those  words  Mr.  Treverton 
returned  to  the  mill,  and  began  to  grind  at  it 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


349 


again,  with  a grin  of  malicious  satisfaction  on 
his  haggard  face. 

Shrowl  withdrew  into  the  kitchen,  closed  the 
door,  and,  placing  the  torn  pieces  of  the  letter 
together  on  the  dresser,  applied  himself,  with 
the  coolest  deliberation,  to  the  business  of  read- 
ing it.  When  he  had  gone  slowly  and  carefully 
through  it,  from  the  address  at  the  beginning  to 
the  name  at  the  end,  he  scratched  reflectively  for 
a little  while  at  his  ragged  beard,  then  folded  the 
letter  up  carefully  and  put  it  in  his  pocket. 

“I’ll  have  another  lojk  at  it  later  in  the  day,” 
he  thought  to  himself,  tearing  off  a piece  of  an 
old  newspaper  to  light  the  fire  with.  “It  strikes 
me,  just  at  present,  that  there  may  be  better 
things  done  with  this  letter  than  burning  it.”. 

Resolutely  abstaining  from  taking  the  letter 
out  of  his  pocket  again  until  all  the  duties  of  the 
household  for  that  day  had  been  duly  performed, 
Shrowl  lit  the  fire,  occupied  the  morning  in  mak- 
ing and  baking  the  bread,  and  patiently  took  his 
turn  afterward  at  digging  in  the  kitchen  garden. 
It  was  four  o’clock  in  the  afternoon  before  he  felt 
himself  at  liberty  to  think  of  his  private  affairs, 
and  to  venture  on  retiring  into  solitude  with  the 
object  of  secretly  looking  over  the  letter  once 
more. 

A second  perusal  of  Doctor  Chennery’s  unlucky 
application  to  Mr.  Treverton  helped  to  confirm 
Shrowl  in  his  resolution  not  to  destroy  the  letter. 
With  great  pains  and  perseverance,  and  much 
incidental  scratching  at  his  beard,  he  contrived 
to  make  himself  master  of  three  distinct  points 


350 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS, 


in  it,  which  stood  out,  in  his  estimation,  as  pos- 
sessing prominent  and  serious  importance. 

The  first  point  which  he  contrived  to  establish 
clearly  in  his  mind  was  that  the  person  who  signed 
the  name  of  Robert  Chennery  was  desirous  of  ex- 
amining a plan,  or  printed  account,  of  the  north 
side  of  the  interior  of  a certain  old  house  in  Corn- 
wall, called  Porthgenna  Tower.  The  second  point 
appeared  to  resolve  itself  into  this,  that  Robert 
Chennery  believed  some  such  plan  or  printed  ac- 
count might  be  found  among  the  collection  of 
books  belonging  to  Mr.  Treverton.  The  third 
point  was  that  this  same  Robert  Chennery  would 
receive  the  loan  of  the  plan  or  printed  account  as 
one  of  the  greatest  favors  that  could  be  conferred 
on  him.  Meditating  on  the  latter  fact,  with  an 
eye  exclusively  fixed  on  the  contemplation  of  his 
own  interests,  Shrowl  arrived  at  the  conclusion 
that  it  might  be  well  worth  his  while,  in  a pe- 
cuniary point  of  view,  to  try  if  he  could  not 
privately  place  himself  in  a position  to  oblige 
Robert  Chennery  by  searching  in  secret  among 
his  master’s  books.  “It  might  be  worth  a five- 
pound  note  to  me,  if  I managed  it  well,”  thought 
Shrowl,  putting  the  letter  back  in  his  pocket 
again,  and  ascending  the  stairs  thoughtfully  to 
the  lumber-rooms  at  the  top  of  the  house. 

These  rooms  were  two  in  number,  were  entirely 
unfurnished,  and  were  littered  all  over  with  the 
rare  collection  of  books  which  had  once  adorned 
the  library  at  Porthgenna  Tower.  Covered  with 
dust,  and  scattered  in  all  directions  and  positions 
over  the  floor,  lay  hundreds  and  hundreds  of  vol- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


351 


umes,  cast  out  of  their  packing-cases  as  coals  are 
cast  out  of  their  sacks  into  a cellar.  Ancient 
books,  which  students  would  have  treasured  as 
priceless,  lay  in  chaotic  equality  of  neglect  side 
by  side  with  modem  publications  whose  chief 
merit  was  the  beauty  of  the  binding  by  which 
they  were  inclosed.  Into  this  wilderness  of  scat- 
tered volumes  Shrowl  now  wandered,  fortified  by 
the  supreme  self-possession  of  ignorance,  to  search 
resolutely  for  one  particular  book,  with  no  other 
light  to  direct  him  than  the  faint  glimmer  of  the 
two  guiding  words — Forthgenna  Tower.  Hav- 
ing got  them  firmly  fixed  in  his  mind,  his  next 
object  was  to  search  until  he  found  them  printed 
on  the  first  page  of  any  one  of  the  hundreds  of 
volumes  that  lay  around  him.  This  was,  for  the 
time  being,  emphatically  his  business  in  life,  and 
there  he  now  stood,  in  the  largest  of  the  two 
attics,  doggedly  prepared  to  do  it. 

He  cleared  away  space  enough  with  his  feet  to 
enable  him  to  sit  down  comfortably  on  the  floor, 
and  then  began  to  look  over  all  the  books  that 
lay  within  arms-length  of  him.  Odd  volumes 
of  rare  editions  of  the  classics,  odd  volumes  of 
the  English  historians,  odd  volumes  of  plays  by 
the  Elizabethan  dramatists,  books  of  travel, 
books  of  sermons,  books  of  jests,  books  of  nat- 
ural history,  books  of  sport,  turned  up  in  quaint 
and  rapid  succession;  but  no  book  containing  on 
the  title-page  the  words  “Forthgenna  Tower” 
rewarded  the  searching  industry  of  Shrowl  for 
the  first  ten  minutes  after  he  had  sat  himself 
down  on  the  floor. 


352 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Before  removing  to  another  position,  and  con- 
tending with  a fresh  accumulation  of  literary 
lumber,  he  paused  and  considered  a little  with 
himself,  whether  there  might  not  be  some  easier 
and  more  orderly  method  than  any  he  had  yet 
devised  of  working  his  way  through  the  scat- 
tered mass  of  volumes  which  yet  remained  to  be 
examined.  The  result  of  his  reflections  was  that 
it  would  be  less  confusing  to  him  if  he  searched 
through  the  books  in  all  parts  of  the  room  indif- 
ferently, regulating  his  selection  of  them  solely 
by  their  various  sizes;  disposing  of  all  the  largest 
to  begin  with;  then,  after  stowing  them  away 
together,  proceeding  to  the  next  largest,  and  so 
going  on  until  he  came  down  at  last  to  the 
pocket  volumes.  Accordingly,  he  cleared  away 
another  morsel  of  vacant  space  near  the  wall, 
and  then,  trampling  over  the  books  as  coolly  as 
if  they  were  so  many  clods  of  earth  on  a plowed 
field,  picked  out  the  largest  of  all  the  volumes 
that  lay  on  the  floor. 

It  was  an  atlas;  Shrowl  turned  over  the  maps, 
reflected,  shook  his  head,  and  removed  the  vol- 
ume to  the  vacant  space  which  he  had  cleared 
close  to  the  wall. 

The  next  largest  book  was  a magnificently 
bound  collection  of  engraved  portraits  of  distin- 
guished characters.  Shrowl  saluted  the  distin- 
guished characters  with  a grunt  of  Gothic  disap- 
probation, and  carried  them  off  to  keep  the  atlas 
company  against  the  wall. 

The  third  largest  book  lay  under  several  oth- 
ers. It  projected  a little  at  one  end,  and  it  was 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


353 


bound  in  scarlet  morocco.  In  another  position, 
or  bound  in  a quieter  color,  it  would  probably 
have  escaped  notice.  Shrowl  drew  it  out  with 
some  difficulty,  opened  it  with  a protentous 
frown  of  distrust,  looked  at  the  title-page — and 
suddenly  slapped  his  thigh  with  a great  oath  of 
exultation.  There  were  the  very  two  words  of 
which  he  was  in  search,  staring  him  in  the  face, 
as  it  were,  with  all  the  emphasis  of  the  largest 
capital  letters. 

He  took  a step  toward  the  door  to  make  sure 
that  his  master  was  not  moving  in  the  house; 
then  checked  himself  and  turned  back.  “What 
do  I care,”  thought  Shrowl,  “whether  he  sees  me 
or  not?  If  it  comes  to  a tustle  betwixt  us  which 
is  to  have  his  own  way,  I know  who's  master 
and  who’s  servant  in  the  house  by  this  time.” 
Composing  himself  with  that  reflection,  he  turned 
to  the  first  leaf  of  the  book,  with  the  intention  of 
looking  it  over  carefully,  page  by  page,  from  be- 
ginning to  end. 

The  first  leaf  was  a blank.  The  second  leaf 
had  an  inscription  written  at  the  top  of  it,  in 
faded  ink,  which  contained  these  words  and  ini- 
tials: “Rare.  Only  six  copies  printed.  J.  A. 

T.”  Relow,  on  the  middle  of  the  leaf,  was  the 
printed  dedication:  “To  John  Arthur  Trever- 

ton,  Esquire,  Lord  of  the  Manor  of  Porthgenna, 
One  of  his  Majesty’s  Justices  of  the  Peace, 
F.R.S.,  etc.,  etc.,  etc.,  this  work,  in  which  an 
attempt  is  made  to  describe  the  ancient  and  hon- 
ored Mansion  of  his  Ancestors — ” There  were 
many  more  lines,  filled  to  bursting  with  all  the 
L — Vol.  16 


854:  WORKS  OE  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

largest  and  most  obsequious  words  to  be  found  in 
the  dictionary ; but  Shrowl  wisely  abstained  from 
giving  himself  the  trouble  of  reading  them,  and 
turned  over  at  once  to  the  title-page. 

There  were  the  all-important  words:  “The 

History  and  Antiquities  of  Porthgenna  Tower. 
From  the  period  of  its  first  erection  to  the  present 
time;  comprising  interesting  genealogical  partic- 
ulars relating  to  the  Treverton  family;  with  an 
inquiry  into  the  Origin  of  Gothic  Architecture, 
and  a few  thoughts  on  the  Theory  of  Fortifica- 
tion after  the  period  of  the  Norman  Conquest. 
By  the  Reverend  Job  Dark,  D.D.,  Rector  of 
Porthgenna.  The  whole  adorned  with  Portraits, 
Views,  and  Plans,  executed  in  the  highest  style 
of  art.  Not  published.  Printed  by  Spaldock 
& Grimes,  Truro,  1734.” 

That  was  the  title-page.  The  next  leaf  con- 
tained an  engraved  view  of  Porthgenna  Tower 
from  the  West.  Then  came  several  pages  de- 
voted to  the  Origin  of  Gothic  Architecture. 
Then  more  pages,  explaining  the  Norman  Theory 
of  Fortification.  These  were  succeeded  by  an- 
other engraving— Porthgenna  Tower  from  the 
East.  After  that  followed  more  reading,  under 
the  title  of  The  Treverton  Family;  and  then 
came  the  third  engraving — Porthgenna  Tower 
from  the  North.  Shrowl  paused  there,  and 
looked  with  interest  at  the  leaf  opposite  the 
print.  It  only  announced  more  reading  still, 
about  the  Erection  of  the  Mansion;  and  this 
was  succeeded  by  engravings  from  family  por- 
traits in  the  gallery  at  Porthgenna.  Placing  his 


THE  BEAD  SECRET. 


355 


left  thumb  between  the  leaves  to  mark  the  place, 
Shrowl  impatiently  turned  to  the  end  of  the  book, 
to  see  what  he  could  find  there.  The  last  leaf 
contained  a plan  of  tho  stables;  the  leaf  before 
that  presented  a plan  of  the  north  garden;  and 
on  the  next  leaf,  turning  backward,  was  the  very 
thing  described  in  Robert  Chennery’s  letter — a 
plan  of  the  interior  arrangement  of  the  north  side 
of  the  house ! 

ShrowPs  first  impulse  on  making  this  discov- 
ery was  to  carry  the  book  away  to  the  safest 
hiding-place  he  could  find  for  it,  preparatory  to 
secretly  offering  it  for  sale  when  the  messenger 
called  the  next  morning  for  an  answer  to  the  let- 
ter. A little  reflection,  however,  convinced  him 
that  a proceeding  of  this  sort  bore  a dangerously 
close  resemblance  to  the  act  of  thieving,  and 
might  get  him  into  trouble  if  the  person  with 
whom  he  desired  to  deal  asked  him  any  prelimi- 
nary questions  touching  his  right  to  the  volume 
which  he  wanted  to  dispose  of.  The  only  al- 
ternative that  remained  was  to  make  the  best 
copy  he  could  of  the  Plan,  and  to  traffic  with 
that,  as  a document  which  the  most  scrupulous 
person  in  the  world  need  not  hesitate  to  purchase. 

Resolving,  after  some  consideration,  to  under- 
go the  trouble  of  making  the  copy  rather  than 
run  the  risk  of  purloining  the  book,  Shrowl  de- 
scended to  the  kitchen,  took  from  one  of  the 
drawers  of  the  dresser  an  old  stump  of  a pen,  a 
bottle  of  ink,  and  a crumpled  half-sheet  of  dirty 
letter-paper,  and  returned  to  the  garret  to  copy 
the  Plan  as  he  best  might.  It  was  of  the  sim- 


356 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


plesfc  kind,  and  it  occupied  but  a small  portion 
of  the  page ; yet  it  presented  to  his  eyes  a hope- 
lessly involved  and  intricate  appearance  when 
he  now  examined  it  for  the  second  time. 

The  rooms  were  represented  by  rows  of  small 
squares,  with  names  neatly  printed  inside  them; 
and  the  positions  of  doors,  staircases,  and  pas- 
sages were  indicated  by  parallel  lines  of  various 
lengths  and  breadths.  After  much  cogitation, 
frowning,  and  pulling  at  his  beard,  it  occurred 
to  Shrowl  that  the  easiest  method  of  copying  the 
Plan  would  be  to  cover  it  with  the  letter-paper 
— which,  though  hardly  half  the  size  of  the  page, 
was  large  enough  to  spread  over  the  engraving 
on  it— and  then  to  trace  the  lines  which  he  saw 
through  the  paper  as  carefully  as  he  could  with 
his  pen  and  ink.  He  puffed  and  snorted  and 
grumbled,  and  got  red  in  the  face  over  his  task; 
but  he  accomplished  it  at  last — bating  certain 
drawbacks  in  the  shape  of  blots  and  smears — in 
a sufficiently  creditable  manner;  then  stopped  to 
let  the  ink  dry  and  to  draw  his  breath  freely, 
before  he  attempted  to  do  anything  more. 

The  next  obstacle  to  be  overcome  consisted  in 
the  difficulty  of  copying  the  names  of  the  rooms, 
which  were  printed  inside  the  squares.  Fortu- 
nately for  Shrowl,  who  was  one  of  the  clumsiest 
of  mankind  in  the  use  of  the  pen,  none  of  the 
names  were  very  long.  As  it  was,  he  found  the 
greatest  difficulty  in  writing  them  in  sufficiently 
small  characters  to  fit  into  the  squares.  One 
name  in  particular — that  of  the  Myrtle  Room — 
presented  combinations  of  letters,  in  the  word 


THE  DEAD  SECRET 


857 


“Myrtle,”  which  tried  his  patience  and  his  fin 
gers  sorely  when  he  attempted  to  reproduce  them. 
Indeed,  the  result,  in  this  case,  when  he  had  done 
his  best,  was  so  illegible,  even  to  his  eyes,  that 
he  wrote  the  word  over  again  in  larger  characters 
at  the  top  of  the  page,  and  connected  it  by  a 
wavering  line  with  the  square  which  represented 
the  Myrtle  Room.  The  same  accident  happened 
to  him  in  two  other  instances,  and  was  remedied 
in  the  same  way.  With  the  rest  of  the  names, 
however,  he  succeeded  better;  and,  when  he  had 
finally  completed  the  business  of  transcription  by 
writing  the  title,  “Plan  of  the  North  Side,”  his 
copy  presented,  on  the  whole,  a more  respectable 
appearance  than  might  have  been  anticipated. 
After  satisfying  himself  of  its  accuracy  by  a 
careful  comparison  of  it  with  the  original,  he 
folded  it  up  along  with  Doctor  Chennery’s  letter, 
and  deposited  it  in  his  pocket  with  a hoarse  gasp 
of  relief  and  a grim  smile  of  satisfaction. 

The  next  morning  the  garden  door  of  the  cot- 
tage presented  itself  to  the  public  eye  in  the 
totally  new  aspect  of  standing  hospitably  ajar; 
and  one  of  the  bare  posts  had  the  advantage  of 
being  embellished  by  the  figure  of  Shrowl,  who 
leaned  against  it  easily,  with  his  legs  crossed, 
his  hands  in  his  pockets,  and  his  pipe  in  his 
mouth,  looking  out  for  the  return  of  the  mes- 
senger who  had  delivered  Doctor  Chennery’s 
letter  the  day  before. 


358 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

APPROACHING  THE  PRECIPICE. 

Traveling  from  London  to  Porthgenna,  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Frankland  had  stopped,  on  the  ninth 
of  May,  at  the  West  Winston  station.  On  the 
eleventh  of  June  they  left  it  again  to  continue 
their  journey  to  Cornwall.  On  the  thirteenth, 
after  resting  two  nights  upon  the  road,  they  ar- 
rived toward  the  evening  at  Porthgenna  Tower. 

There  had  been  storm  and  rain  all  the  morn- 
ing; it  had  lulled  toward  the  afternoon,  and  at 
the  hour  when  they  reached  the  house  the  wind 
had  dropped,  a thick  white  fog  hid  the  sea  from 
view,  and  sudden  showers  fell  drearily  from  time 
to  time  over  the  sodden  land.  Not  even  a soli- 
tary idler  from  the  village  was  hanging  about 
the  west  terrace  as  the  carriage  containing  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Frankland,  the  baby,  and  the  two  serv- 
ants drove  up  to  the  house. 

No  one  was  waiting  with  the  door  open  to  re- 
ceive the  travelers;  for  all  hope  of  their  arriving 
on  that  day  had  been  given  up,  and  the  ceaseless 
thundering  of  the  surf,  as  the  stormy  sea  surged 
in  on  the  beach  beneath,  drowned  the  roll  of  the 
carriage- wheels  over  the  terrace  road.  The  driver 
was  obliged  to  leave  his  seat  and  ring  at  the  bell 
for  admittance.  A minute  or  more  elapsed  be- 
fore the  door  was  opened.  With  the  rain  falling 
sullen  and  steady  on  the  roof  of  the  carriage, 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


359 


with  the  raw  dampness  of  the  atmosphere  pene- 
trating through  all  coverings  and  defenses,  with 
the  booming  of  the  surf  sounding  threateningly 
near  in  the  dense  obscurity  of  the  fog,  the  young 
couple  waited  for  admission  to  their  own  home, 
as  strangers  might  have  waited  who  had  called 
at  an  ill-chosen  time. 

When  the  door  was  opened  at  last,  the  master 
and  mistress,  whom  the  servants  would  have 
welcomed  with  the  proper  congratulations  on 
any  other  occasion,  were  now  received  with  the 
proper  apologies  instead.  Mr.  Munder,  Mrs. 
Pentreath,  Betsey,  and  Mr.  Frankland’s  man 
all  crowded  together  in  the  hall,  and  all  begged 
pardon  confusedly  for  not  having  been  ready  at 
the  door  when  the  carriage  drove  up.  The  ap- 
pearance of  the  baby  changed  the  conventional 
excuses  of  the  housekeeper  and  the  maid  into  con- 
ventional expressions  of  admiration ; but  the  men 
remained  grave  and  gloomy,  and  spoke  of  the 
miserable  weather  apologetically,  as  if  the  rain 
and  the  fog  had  been  of  their  own  making. 

The  reason  for  their  persistency  in  dwelling 
on  this  one  dreary  topic  came  out  while  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Frankland  were  being  conducted  up  the 
west  staircase.  The  storm  of  the  morning  had 
been  fatal  to  three  of  the  Porthgenna  fishermen, 
who  had  been  lost  with  their  boat  at  sea,  and 
whose  deaths  had  thrown  the  whole  village  into 
mourning.  The  servants  had  done  nothing  but 
talk  of  the  catastrophe  ever  since  the  intelligence 
of  it  had  reached  them  early  in  the  afternoon; 
and  Mr.  Munder  now  thought  it  his  duty  to  ex- 


360  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

plain  that  the  absence  of  the  villagers,  on  the  oc- 
casion of  the  arrival  of  his  master  and  mistress, 
was  entirely  attributable  to  the  effect  produced 
among  the  little  community  by  the  wreck  of  the 
fishing-boat.  Under  any  less  lamentable  cir- 
cumstances the  west  terrace  would  have  been 
crowded,  and  the  appearance  of  the  carriage 
would  have  been  welcomed  with  cheers. 

4 ‘ Lenny,  I almost  wish  we  had  waited  a little 
longer  before  we  came  here,”  whispered  Rosa- 
mond, nervously  pressing  her  husband’s  arm. 
“It  is  very  dreary  and  disheartening  to  return 
to  my  first  home  on  such  a day  as  this.  That 
story  of  the  poor  fishermen  is  a sad  story,  love, 
to  welcome  me  back  to  the  place  of  my  birth. 
Let  us  send  the  first  thing  to-morrow  morning, 
and  see  what  we  can  do  for  the  poor  helpless 
women  and  children.  I shall  not  feel  easy  in 
my  mind,  after  hearing  that  story,  till  we  have 
done  something  to  comfort  them.” 

“I  trust  you  will  approve  of  the  repairs, 
ma’am,”  said  the  housekeeper,  pointing  to 
the  staircase  which  led  to  the  second  story. 

“The  repairs?”  said  Rosamond,  absently. 
“Repairs!  I never  hear  the  word  now  with- 
out thinking  of  the  north  rooms,  and  of  the 
plans  we  devised  for  getting  my  poor  dear  father 
to  live  in  them.  Mrs.  Pentreath,  I have  a host 
of  questions  to  ask  you  and  Mr.  Munder  about 
all  the  extraordinary  things  that  happened  when 
the  mysterious  lady  and  the  incomprehensible 
foreigner  came  here.  But  tell  me  first — this  is 
the  west  front,  1 suppose? — how  far  are  we  from 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


361 


the  north  rooms?  I mean,  how  long  would  it 
take  us  to  get  to  them,  if  we  wanted  to  go  now 
to  that  part  of  the  house?” 

“Oh,  dear  me,  ma’am,  not  five  minutes!”  an- 
swered Mrs.  Pentreath. 

“Not  five  minutes !”  repeated  Rosamond,  whis- 
pering to  her  husband  again.  “Do  you  hear 
that,  Lenny?  In  five  minutes  we  might  be  in 
the  Myrtle  Room!” 

“Yet,”  said  Mr.  Frankland,  smiling,  “in  our 
present  state  of  ignorance,  we  are  just  as  far  from 
it  as  if  we  were  at  West  Winston  still.” 

“I  can’t  think  that,  Lenny.  It  may  be  only 
my  fancy,  but  now  we  are  on  the  spot  I feel  as 
if  we  had  driven  the  mystery  into  its  last  hid- 
ing-place. We  are  actually  in  the  house  that 
holds  the  Secret;  and  nothing  will  persuade  me 
that  we  are  not  half-way  already  toward  finding 
it  out.  But  don’t  let  us  stop  on  this  cold  land- 
ing. Which  way  are  we  to  go  next?” 

“This  way,  ma’am,”  said  Mr.  Munder,  seiz- 
ing the  first  opportunity  of  placing  himself  in 
a prominent  position.  “There  is  a fire  in  the 
drawing-room.  Will  you  allow  me  the  honor 
of  leading  and  conducting  you,  sir,  to  the  apart- 
ment in  question?”  he  added,  officiously  stretch- 
ing out  his  hand  to  Mr.  Frankland. 

“Certainly  not !”  interposed  Rosamond,  sharp- 
ly. She  had  noticed  with  her  usual  quickness 
of  observation  that  Mr.  Munder  wanted  the  deli- 
cacy of  feeling  which  ought  to  have  restrained 
him  from  staring  curiously  at  his  blind  master 
in  her  presence,  and  she  was  unfavorably  dis- 


362 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


posed  toward  him  in  consequence.  4 ‘Wherever 
the  apartment  in  question  may  happen  to  be,” 
she  continued,  with  satirical  emphasis,  “I  will 
lead  Mr.  Frankland  to  it,  if  you  please.  If  you 
want  to  make  yourself  useful,  you  had  better  go 
on  before  us  and  open  the  door.” 

Outwardly  crestfallen,  but  inwardly  indig- 
nant, Mr.  Munder  led  the  way  to  the  drawing- 
room. The  fire  burned  brightly,  the  old-fash- 
ioned furniture  displayed  itself  to  the  most 
picturesque  advantage,  the  paper  on  the  walls 
looked  comfortably  mellow,  the  carpet,  faded  as 
it  was,  felt  soft  and  warm  under  foot.  Rosa- 
mond led  her  husband  to  an  easy-chair  by  the 
fireside,  and  began  to  feel  at  home  for  the  first 
time. 

“This  looks  really  comfortable,”  she  said. 
“When  we  have  shut  out  that  dreary  white 
fog,  and  the  candles  are  lit,  and  the  tea  is  on 
the  table,  we  shall  have  nothing  in  the  world 
to  complain  of.  You  enjoy  this  nice  warm  at- 
mosphere, don’t  you,  Lenny?  There  is  a piano 
in  the  room,  my  dear;  I can  play  to  you  in  the 
evening  at  Porthgenna  just  as  I used  in  Lon- 
don. Nurse,  sit  down  and  make  yourself  and 
the  baby  as  comfortable  as  you  can.  Before  we 
take  our  bonnets  off,  I must  go  away  with  Mrs. 
Pentreath  and  see  about  the  bedrooms.  What  is 
your  name,  you  very  rosy,  good-natured-looking 
girl?  Betsey,  is  it?  Well,  then,  Betsey,  sup- 
pose you  go  down  and  get  the  tea;  and  we  shall 
like  you  all  the  better  if  you  can  contrive  to 
bring  us  some  cold  meat  with  it.”  Giving  her 


THE  BEAD  SECRET. 


363 


orders  in  those  good-humored  terms,  and  not  no- 
ticing that  her  husband  looked  a little  uneasy 
while  she  was  talking  so  familiarly  to  a servant, 
Rosamond  left  the  room  in  company  with  Mrs. 
Pentreath. 

When  she  returned  her  face  and  manner  were 
altered;  she  looked  and  spoke  seriously  and 
quietly. 

“I  hope  I have  arranged  everything  for  the 
best,  Lenny,”  she  said.  “The  airiest  and  largest 
room,  Mrs.  Pentreath  tells  me,  is  the  room  in 
which  my  mother  died.  But  I thought  we  had 
better  not  make  use  of  that:  I felt  as  if  it  chilled 
and  saddened  me  only  to  look  at  it.  Further  on, 
along  the  passage,  there  is  a room  that  was  my 
nursery.  I almost  fancied,  when  Mrs.  Pentreath 
told  me  she  had  heard  I used  to  sleep  there,  that 
I remembered  the  pretty  little  arched  doorway 
leading  into  the  second  room — the  night-nursery 
it  used  to  be  called  in  former  days.  I have 
ordered  the  fire  to  be  lighted  there,  and  the  beds 
to  be  made.  There  is  a third  room  on  the  right 
hand,  which  communicates  with  the  day-nursery. 
I think  we  might  manage  to  establish  ourselves 
very  comfortably  in  the  three  rooms — if  you  felt 
no  objection — though  they  are  not  so  large  or  so 
grandly  furnished  as  the  company  bedrooms.  I 
will  change  the  arrangement,  if  you  like — but 
the  house  looks  rather  lonesome  and  dreary,  just 
at  first — and  my  heart  warms  to  the  old  nursery 
— and  I think  we  might  at  least  try  it,  to  begin 
with,  don’t  you,  Lenny?” 

Mr.  Frankland  was  quite  of  his  wife’s  opinion, 


364 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


and  was  ready  to  accede  to  any  domestic  arrange- 
ments that  she  might  think  fit  to  make.  While 
he  was  assuring  her  of  this  the  tea  came  up,  and 
the  sight  of  it  helped  to  restore  Rosamond  to  her 
usual  spirits.  When  the  meal  was  over,  she  oc- 
cupied herself  in  seeing  the  baby  comfortably 
established  for  the  night,  in  the  room  on  the  right 
hand  which  communicated  with  the  day-nursery. 
That  maternal  duty  performed,  she  came  back  to 
her  husband  in  the  drawing-room;  and  the  con- 
versation between  them  turned — as  it  almost  al- 
ways turned  now  when  they  were  alone — on  the 
two  perplexing  subjects  of  Mrs.  Jazeph  and  the 
Myrtle  Room. 

44 1 wish  it  was  not  night,”  said  Rosamond. 
i4X  should  like  to  begin  exploring  at  once.  Mind, 
Lenny,  you  must  be  with  me  in  all  my  investi- 
gations. I lend  you  my  eyes,  and  you  give  me 
your  advice.  You  must  never  lose  patience, 
and  never  tell  me  that  you  can  be  of  no  use. 
How  I do  wish  we  were  starting  on  our  voyage 
of  discovery  at  this  very  moment!  But  we  may 
make  inquiries,  at  any  rate,”  she  continued, 
ringing  the  bell.  44Let  us  have  the  housekeeper 
and  the  steward  up,  and  try  if  we  can’t  make 
them  tell  us  something  more  than  they  told  us 
in  their  letter.” 

The  bell  was  answered  by  Betsey.  Rosamond 
desired  that  Mr.  Munder  and  Mrs.  Pentreath 
might  be  sent  upstairs.  Betsey  having  heard 
Mrs.  Prankland  express  her  intention  of  ques- 
tioning the  housekeeper  and  the  steward,  guessed 
why  they  were  wanted,  and  smiled  mysteriously. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


365 


“Did  you  see  anything  of  those  strange  visi- 
tors who  behaved  so  oddly?”  asked  Rosamond, 
detecting  the  smile.  “Yes,  I am  sure  you  did. 
Tell  us  what  you  saw.  We  want  to  hear  every- 
thing that  happened — everything,  down  to  the 
smallest  trifle.” 

Appealed  to  in  these  direct  terms,  Betsey  con- 
trived, with  much  circumlocution  and  confusion, 
to  relate  what  her  own  personal  experience  had 
been  of  the  proceedings  of  Mrs.  Jazeph  and  her 
foreign  companion.  When  she  had  done,  Rosa- 
mond stopped  her  on  her  way  to  the  door  by  ask- 
ing this  question : 

“You  say  the  lady  was  found  lying  in  a faint ^ 
ing-fit  at  the  top  of  the  stairs.  Have  you  any 
notion,  Betsey,  why  she  fainted?” 

The  servant  hesitated. 

“Come!  come!”  said  Rosamond.  “You  have 
some  notion,  I can  see.  Tell  us  what  it  is.” 

“I’m  afraid  you  will  be  angry  with  me, 
ma’am,”  said  Betsey,  expressing  embarrass- 
ment by  drawing  lines  slowty  with  her  fore- 
finger on  a table  at  her  side. 

“Nonsense!  I shall  only  be  angry  with  you  if 
you  won’t  speak.  Why  do  you  think  the  lady 
fainted?” 

Betsey  drew  a very  long  line  with  her  em- 
barrassed forefinger,  wiped  it  afterward  on  her 
apron,  and  answered : 

“I  think  she  fainted,  if  you  please,  ma’am, 
because  she  see  the  ghost.” 

“The  ghost!  What*!  is  there  a ghost  in  the 
house?  Lenny,  here  is  a romance  that  we  never 


366 


WOKKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


expected.  What  sort  of  ghost  is  it?  Let  us 
have  the  whole  story.” 

The  whole  story,  as  Betsey  told  it,  was  not  of 
a nature  to  afford  her  hearers  any  extraordinary 
information,  or  to  keep  them  very  long  in  sus- 
pense. The  ghost  was  a lady  who  had  been  at 
a remote  period  the  wife  of  one  of  the  owners  of 
Porthgenna  Tower,  and  who  had  been  guilty 
of  deceiving  her  husband  in  some  way  unknown. 
She  had  been  condemned  in  consequence  to  walk 
about  the  north  rooms  as  long  as  ever  the  walls 
of  them  held  together.  She  had  long,  curling, 
light-brown  hair,  and  very  white  teeth,  and  a 
dimple  in  each  cheek,  and  was  altogether  “aw- 
ful beautiful”  to  look  at.  Her  approach  was 
heralded  to  any  mortal  creature  who  was  un- 
fortunate enough  to  fall  in  her  way  by  the  blow- 
ing of  a cold  wind,  and  nobody  who  had  once 
felt  that  wind  had  the  slightest  chance  of  ever 
feeling  warm  again.  That  was  all  Betsey  knew 
about  the  ghost;  and  it  was  in  her  opinion  enough 
to  freeze  a person’s  blood  only  to  think  of  it. 

Rosamond  smiled,  then  looked  grave  again. 
“I  wish  you  could  have  told  us  a little  more,” 
she  said.  “But,  as  you  cannot,  we  must  try 
Mrs.  Pentreath  and  Mr.  Munder  next.  Send 
them  up  here,  if  you  please,  Betsey,  as  soon  as 
you  get  downstairs.” 

The  examination  of  the  housekeeper  and  the 
steward  led  to  no  result  whatever.  Nothing 
more  than  they  had  already  communicated  in 
their  letter  to  Mrs.  Frankland  could  be  extracted 
from  either  of  them.  Mr.  Munder’s  dominant 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


367 


idea  was  that  the  foreigner  had  entered  the  doors 
of  Porthgenna  Tower  with  felonious  ideas  on  the 
subject  of  the  family  plate.  Mrs.  Pentreath  con- 
curred in  that  opinion,  and  mentioned,  in  connec- 
tion with  it,  her  own  private  impression  that  the 
lady  in  the  quiet  dress  was  an  unfortunate  person 
who  had  escaped  from  a madhouse.  As  to  giv- 
ing a word  of  advice,  or  suggesting  a plan  for 
solving  the  mystery,  neither  the  housekeeper  nor 
the  steward  appeared  to  think  that  the  rendering 
of  any  assistance  of  that  sort  lay  at  all  within 
their  province.  They  took  their  own  practical 
view  of  the  suspicious  conduct  of  the  two  stran- 
gers, and  no  mortal  power  could  persuade  them 
to  look  an  inch  beyond  it. 

“Oh,  the  stupidity,  the  provoking,  impene- 
trable, pretentious  stupidity  of  respectable  En- 
glish servants !”  exclaimed  Rosamond,  when 
she  and  her  husband  were  alone  again.  “No 
help,  Lenny,  to  be  hoped  for  from  either  of  those 
two  people.  We  have  nothing  to  trust  to  now 
but  the  examination  of  the  house  to-morrow;  and 
that  resource  may  fail  us,  like  all  the  rest.  What 
can  Doctor  Chennery  be  about?  Why  did  we  not 
hear  from  him  before  we  left  West  Winston?” 

“ Patience,  Rosamond,  patience.  We  shall 
see  what  the  post  brings  to-morrow.” 

“Pray  don’t  talk  about  patience,  dear!  My 
stock  of  that  virtue  was  never  a very  large  one, 
and  it  was  all  exhausted  ten  days  ago,  at  least. 
Oh,  the  weeks  and  weeks  I have  been  vainly  ask- 
ing myself — -Why  should  Mrs.  Jazeph  warn  me 
against  going  into  the  Myrtle  Room?  Is  she 


368 


WORKS  OP  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


afraid  of  my  discovering  a crime?  or  afraid  of 
my  tumbling  through  the  floor?  What  did  she 
want  to  do  in  the  room,  when  she  made  that  at- 
tempt to  get  into  it?  Why,  in  the  name  of  won- 
der, should  she  know  something  about  this  house 
that  I never  knew,  that  my  father  never  knew, 
that  nobody  else—” 

“ Rosamond!”  cried  Mr.  Frankland,  suddenly 
changing  color,  and  starting  in  his  chair — “I 
think  I can  guess  who  Mrs.  Jazeph  is!” 

“Good  gracious,  Lenny ! What  do  you  mean?” 

“Something  in  those  last  words  of  yours  started 
the  idea  in  my  mind  the  instant  you  spoke.  Do 
you  remember,  when  we  were  staying  at  St. 
Swithin’s-on-Sea,  and  talking  about  the  chances 
for  and  against  our  prevailing  on  your  father  to 
live  with  us  here— do  you  remember,  Rosamond, 
telling  me  at  that  time  of  certain  unpleasant  as 
sociations  which  he  had  with  the  house,  and  men- 
tioning among  them  the  mysterious  disappearance 
of  a servant  on  the  morning  of  your  mother’s 
death?” 

Rosamond  turned  pale  at  the  question.  “How 
came  we  never  to  think  of  that  before?”  she  said. 

“You told  me,”  pursued  Mr.  Frankland,  “that 
this  servant  left  a strange  letter  behind  her,  in 
which  she  confessed  that  your  mother  had  charged 
her  with  the  duty  of  telling  a secret  to  your  father 
— a secret  that  she  was  afraid  to  divulge,  and 
that  she  was  afraid  of  being  questioned  about. 
I am  right,  am  I not,  in  stating  those  two  rea- 
sons as  the  reasons  she  gave  for  her  disappear- 
ance?” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


369 


“ Quite  right.” 

* ‘And  your  father  never  heard  of  her  again?” 

“Never !” 

“It  is  a bold  guess  to  make,  Rosamond,  but 
the  impression  is  strong  on  my  mind  that,  on  the 
day  when  Mrs.  Jazeph  came  into  your  room  at 
West  Winston,  you  and  that  servant  met,  and 
she  knew  it!” 

“ And  the  Secret,  dear — the  Secret  she  was 
afraid  to  tell  my  father?” 

“Must  be  in  some  way  connected  with  the 
Myrtle  Room.” 

Rosamond  said  nothing  in  answer.  She  rose 
from  her  chair,  and  began  to  walk  agitatedly  up 
and  down  the  room.  Hearing  the  rustle  of  her 
dress,  Leonard  called  her  to  him,  and,  taking 
her  hand,  laid  his  fingers  on  her  pulse,  and  then 
lifted  them  for  a moment  to  her  cheek. 

“I  wish  I had  waited  until  to-morrow  morning 
before  I told  you  my  idea  about  Mrs.  Jazeph,” 
he  said.  “I  have  agitated  you  to  no  purpose 
whatever,  and  have  spoiled  your  chance  of  a 
good  night’s  rest.” 

“No,  no!  nothing  of  the  kind.  Oh,  Lenny, 
how  this  guess  of  yours  adds  to  the  interest — the 
fearful,  breathless  interest— we  have  in  tracing 
that  woman,  and  in  finding  out  the  Myrtle  Room. 
Do  you  think — ?” 

“I  have  done  with  thinking  for  the  night,  my 
dear;  and  you  must  have  done  with  it  too.  We 
have  said  more  than  enough  about  Mrs.  Jazeph 
already.  Change  the  subject,  and  I will  talk  of 
anything  else  you  please.” 


370 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“It  is  not  so  easy  to  change  the  subject.”  said 
Rosamond,  pouting,  and  moving  away  to  walk 
up  and  down  the  room  again. 

“Then  let  us  change  the  place,  and  make  it 
easier  that  way.  I know  you  think  me  the  most 
provokingly  obstinate  man  in  the  world,  but 
there  is  reason  in  my  obstinacy,  and  you  will  ac- 
knowledge as  much  when  you  awake  to-morrow 
morning  refreshed  by  a good  night’s  rest.  Come, 
let  us  give  our  anxieties  a holiday.  Take  me 
into  one  of  the  other  rooms,  and  let  me  try  if  I 
can  guess  what  it  is  like  by  touching  the  furni- 
ture.” 

The  reference  to  his  blindness  which  the  last 
words  contained  brought  Rosamond  to  his  side 
in  a moment.  “You  always  know  best,”  she 
said,  putting  her  arm  round  his  neck  and  kissing 
him.  “I  was  looking  cross,  love,  a minute  ago, 
but  the  clouds  are  all  gone  now.  We  will  change 
the  scene,  and  explore  some  other  room,  as  you 
propose.” 

She  paused,  her  eyes  suddenly  sparkled,  her 
color  rose,  and  she  smiled  to  herself  as  if  some 
new  fancy  had  that  instant  crossed  her  mind. 

“Lenny,  I will  take  you  where  you  shall  touch 
a very  remarkable  piece  of  furniture  indeed,” 
she  resumed,  leading  him  to  the  door  while  she 
spoke.  “We  will  see  if  you  can  tell  me  at  once 
what  it  is  like.  You  must  not  be  impatient, 
mind;  and  you  must  promise  to  touch  nothing 
till  you  feel  me  guiding  your  hand.” 

She  drew  him  after  her  along  the  passage, 
opened  the  door  of  the  room  in  which  the  baby 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


371 


had  been  put  to  bed,  made  a sign  to  the  nurse  to 
be  silent,  and,  leading  Leonard  up  to  the  cot, 
guided  his  hand  down  gently,  so  as  to  let  the 
tips  of  his  fingers  touch  the  child’s  cheek. 

“There,  sir!”  she  cried,  her  face  beaming 
with  happiness  as  she  saw  the  sudden  flush  of 
surprise  and  pleasure  which  changed  her  hus- 
band’s natural  quiet,  subdued  expression  in  an 
instant.  “What  do  you  say  to  that  piece  of  fur- 
niture? Is  it  a chair,  or  a table?  Or  is  it  the 
most  precious  thing  in  all  the  house,  in  all  Corn- 
wall, in  all  England,  in  all  the  world?  Kiss  it, 
and  see  what  it  is — a bust  of  a baby  by  a sculp- 
tor, or  a living  cherub  by  your  wife!”  She 
turned,  laughing,  to  the  nurse — “Hannah,  you 
look  so  serious  that  I am  sure  you  must  be  hun- 
gry. Have  you  had  your  supper  yet?”  The 
woman  smiled,  and  answered  that  she  had  ar- 
ranged to  go  downstairs,  as  soon  as  one  of  the 
servants  could  relieve  her  in  taking  care  of  the 
child.  “Go  at  once,”  said  Rosamond.  “I  will 
stop  here  and  look  after  the  baby.  Get  your  sup- 
per and  come  back  again  in  half  an  hour.” 

When  the  nurse  had  left  the  room,  Rosamond 
placed  a chair  for  Leonard  by  the  side  of  the  cot, 
and  seated  herself  on  a low  stool  at  his  knees. 
Her  variable  disposition  seemed  to  change  again 
when  she  did  this;  her  face  grew  thoughtful,  her 
eyes  softened,  as  they  turned,  now  on  her  hus- 
band, now  on  the  bed  in  which  the  child  was 
sleeping  by  his  side.  After  a minute  or  two  of 
silence,  she  took  one  of  his  hands,  placed  it  on 
his  knee,  and  laid  her  cheek  gently  down  on  it. 


372 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“Lenny,”  she  said,  rather  sadly,  “I  wonder 
whether  we  are  any  of  us  capable  of  feeling  per- 
fect happiness  in  this  world?” 

“What  makes  you  ask  that  question,  my 
dear?” 

“I  fancy  that  I could  feel  perfect  happiness, 
and  yet — ” 

“And  yet  what?” 

“And  yet  it  seems  as  if,  with  all  my  blessings, 
that  blessing  was  never  likely  to  be  granted  to 
me.  I should  be  perfectly  happy  now  but  for 
one  little  thing.  I suppose  you  can’t  guess  what 
that  thing  is?” 

“I  would  rather  you  told  me,  Rosamond.” 
“Ever  since  our  child  was  born,  love,  I have 
had  a little  aching  at  the  heart — especially  when 
we  are  all  three  together,  as  we  are  now — a little 
sorrow  that  I can’t  quite  put  away  from  me  on 
your  account.” 

“On  my  account!  Lift  up  your  head,  Rosa- 
mond, and  come  nearer  to  me.  I feel  something 
on  my  hand  which  tells  me  that  you  are  crying.” 
She  rose  directly  and  laid  her  face  close  to  his. 
“My  own  love,”  she  said,  clasping  her  arms  fast 
round  him.  “My  own  heart’s  darling,  you  have 
never  seen  our  child.” 

“Yes,  Rosamond,  I see  him  with  your  eyes.” 
“Oh,  Lenny!  I tell  you  everything  I can — 1 
do  my  best  to  lighten  the  cruel,  cruel  darkness 
which  shuts  you  out  from  that  lovely  little  face 
lying  so  close  to  you!  But  can  I tell  you  how  he 
looks  when  he  first  begins  to  take  notice?  can  I 
tell  you  all  the  thousand  pretty  things  he  will  do 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


373 


when  he  first  tries  to  talk?  God  has  been  very 
merciful  to  us — but,  oh,  how  much  more  heavily 
the  sense  of  your  affliction  weighs  on  me  now 
when  I am  more  to  you  than  your  wife — now 
when  I am  the  mother  of  your  child !” 

4 And  yet  that  affliction  ought  to  weigh  lightly 
on  your  spirits,  Rosamond,  for  you  have  made  it 
weigh  lightly  on  mine.5’ 

‘ 4 Have  I?  Really  and  truly,  have  I?  It  is 
something  noble  to  live  for,  Lenny,  if  I can  live 
for  that!  It  is  some  comfort  to  hear  you  say,  as 
you  said  just  now,  that  you  see  with  my  eyes. 
They  shall  always  serve  you — oh,  always!  ah 
ways! — as  faithfully  as  if  they  were  your  own. 
The  veriest  trifle  of  a visible  thing  that  I look 
at  with  any  interest,  you  shall  as  good  as  look  at 
too.  I might  have  had  my  own  little  harmless 
secrets,  dear,  with  another  husband;  but  with 
you  to  have  even  so  much  as  a thought  in  secret 
seems  like  taking  the  basest,  the  cruelest  advan- 
tage of  your  blindness.  I do  love  you  so,  Lenny! 
I am  so  much  fonder  of  you  now  than  I was 
when  we  were  first  married — I never  thought  I 
should  be,  but  I am.  You  are  so  much  hand- 
somer to  me,  so  much  cleverer  to  me,  so  much 
more  precious  to  me  in  every  way.  But  I am 
always  telling  you  that,  am  I not?  Do  you  get 
tired  of  hearing  me?  No?  Are  you  sure  of 
that?  Very,  very,  very  sure?”  She  stopped, 
and  looked  at  him  earnestly,  with  a smile  on  her 
lips,  and  the  tears  still  glistening  in  her  eyes. 
Just  then  the  child  stirred  a little  in  his  cot  and 
drew  her  attention  away.  She  arranged  the  bed- 


374 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


clothes  over  him,  watched  him  in  silence  for  a 
little  while,  then  sat  down  again  on  the  stool  at 
Leonard’s  feet.  “Baby  has  turned  his  face  quite 
round  toward  you  now,”  she  said.  “Shall  I tell 
you  exactly  how  he  looks,  and  what  his  bed  is 
like,  and  how  the  room  is  furnished?” 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer,  she  began  to 
describe  the  child’s  appearance  and  position  with 
the  marvelous  minuteness  of  a woman’s  observa- 
tion. While  she  proceeded,  her  elastic  spirits 
recovered  themselves,  and  its  naturally  bright 
happy  expression  reappeared  on  her  face.  By 
the  time  the  nurse  returned  to  her  post,  Rosa- 
mond was  talking  with  all  her  accustomed  vivac- 
ity, and  amusing  her  husband  with  all  her  ac- 
customed success. 

When  they  went  back  to  the  drawing-room, 
she  opened  the  piano  and  sat  down  to  play.  % “I 
must  give  you  your  usual  evening  concert, 
Lenny,”  she  said,  “or  I shall  be  talking  again 
on  the  forbidden  subject  of  the  Myrtle  Room.” 

She  played  some  of  Mr.  Frankland’s  favorite 
airs,  with  a certain  union  of  feeling  and  fanci- 
fulness in  her  execution  of  the  music,  which 
seemed  to  blend  the  charm  of  her  own  dispo- 
sition with  the  charm  of  the  melodies  which 
sprang  into  life  under  her  touch.  After  play- 
ing through  the  airs  she  could  remember  most 
easily,  she  ended  with  the  Last  Waltz  of  Weber. 
It  was  Leonard’s  favorite,  and  it  was  always  re- 
served on  that  account  to  grace  the  close  of  the 
evening’s  performance. 

She  lingered  longer  than  usual  over  the  last 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


375 


plaintive  notes  of  the  waltz ; then  suddenly  left 
the  piano,  and  hastened  across  the  room  to  the 
fire-place. 

4 4 Surely  it  has  turned  much  colder  within  the 
last  minute  or  two,”  she  said,  kneeling  down  on 
the  rug  and  holding  her  face  and  hands  over  the 
fire. 

“Has  it?”  returned  Leonard.  “I  don’t  feel 
any  change.” 

“Perhaps  I have  caught  cold,”  said  Rosa- 
mond. “Or  perhaps,”  she  added,  laughing 
rather  uneasily,  “the  wind  that  goes  before  the 
ghostly  lady  of  the  north  rooms  has  been  blow- 
ing over  me.  I certainly  felt  something  like  a 
sudden  chill,  Lenny,  while  I was  playing  the 
last  notes  of  Weber.” 

“Nonsense,  Rosamond.  You  are  overfatigued 
and  overexcited.  Tell  your  maid  to  make  you 
some  hot  wine  and  water,  and  lose  no  time  in 
getting  to  bed.” 

Rosamond  cowered  closer  over  the  fire.  “It’s 
lucky  I am  not  superstitious,”  she  said,  “or  I 
might  fancy  that  I was  predestined  to  see  the 
ghost.” 


CHAPTER  IV. 

STANDING  ON  THE  BRINK. 

The  first  night  at  Porthgenna  passed  without 
the  slightest  noise  or  interruption  of  any  kind. 
No  ghost,  or  dream  of  a ghost,  disturbed  the 
soundness  of  Rosamond’s  slumbers.  She  awoke 


376 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


in  her  usual  spirits  and  her  usual  health,  and 
was  out  in  the  west  garden  before  breakfast. 

The  sky  was  cloudy,  and  the  wind  veered 
about  capriciously  to  all  the  points  of  the  com- 
pass. In  the  course  of  her  walk  Rosamond  met 
with  the  gardener,  and  asked  him  what  he 
thought  about  the  weather.  The  man  replied 
that  it  might  rain  again  before  noon,  but  that, 
unless  he  was  very  much  mistaken,  it  was  going 
to  turn  to  heat  in  the  course  of  the  next  four- 
and-twenty  hours. 

“Pray,  did  you  ever  hear  of  a room  on  the 
north  side  of  our  old  house  called  the  Myrtle 
Room?”  inquired  Rosamond.  She  had  resolved, 
on  rising  that  morning,  not  to  lose  a chance  of 
making  the  all-important  discovery  for  want  of 
asking  questions  of  everybody  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ; and  she  began  with  the  gardener  accord- 
ingly. 

“I  never  heard  tell  of  it,  ma’am,”  said  the 
man.  “But  it’s  a likely  name  enough,  consider- 
ing how  the  myrtles  do  grow  in  these  parts.” 

“Are  there  any  myrtles  growing  at  the  north 
side  of  the  house?”  asked  Rosamond,  struck 
with  the  idea  of  tracing  the  mysterious  room  by 
searching  for  it  outside  the  building  instead  of 
inside.  “I  mean  close  to  the  walls,”  she  added, 
seeing  the  man  look  puzzled;  “under  the  win- 
dows, you  know?” 

“I  never  see  anything  under  the  windows  in 
my  time  but  weeds  and  rubbish,”  replied  the 
gardener. 

Just  then  the  breakfast-bell  rang.  Rosamond 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


377 


returned  to  the  house,  determined  to  explore  the 
north  garden,  and  if  she  found  any  relic  of  a bed 
of  myrtles  to  mark  the  window  above  it,  and  to 
have  the  room  which  that  window  lighted  opened 
immediately.  She  confided  this  new  scheme  to 
her  husband.  He  complimented  her  on  her  in- 
genuity, but  confessed  that  he  had  no  great  hope 
of  any  discoveries  being  made  out  of  doors,  after 
what  the  gardener  had  said  about  the  weeds  and 
rubbish. 

As  soon  as  breakfast  was  over,  Rosamond  rang 
the  bell  to  order  the  gardener  to  be  in  attend- 
ance, and  to  say  that  the  keys  of  the  north  rooms 
would  be  wanted.  The  summons  was  answered 
by  Mr.  Frankland’s  servant,  who  brought  up 
with  him  the  morning’s  supply  of  letters,  which 
the  postman  had  just  delivered.  Rosamond 
turned  them  over  eagerly,  pounced  on  one  with 
an  exclamation  of  delight,  and  said  to  her  hus- 
band— “The  Long  Beckley  postmark!  News 
from  the  vicar,  at  last!” 

She  opened  the  letter  and  ran  her  eye  over  it — 
then  suddenly  dropped  it  in  her  lap  with  her  face 
all  in  a glow.  “Lenny!”  she  exclaimed,  “there 
is  news  here  that  is  positively  enough  to  turn 
one’s  head.  I declare  the  vicar’s  letter  has  quite 
taken  away  my  breath!” 

“Read  it,”  said  Mr.  Frankland;  “pray  read  it 
at  once.” 

Rosamond  complied  with  the  request  in  a very 
faltering,  unsteady  voice.  Doctor  Chonnery  be- 
gan his  letter  by  announcing  that  his  application 
to  Andrew  Treverton  had  remained  unanswered; 


378 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


but  he  added  that  it  had,  nevertheless,  produced 
results  which  no  one  could  possibly  have  antiei- 
pated.  For  information  on  the  subject  of  those 
results,  he  referred  Mr.  and  Mis.  Frankland  to  a 
copy  subjoined  of  a communication  marked  pri- 
vate, which  he  had  received  from  his  man  of 
business  in  London. 

The  communication  contained  a detailed  report 
of  an  interview  which  had  taken  place  between 
Mr.  Treverton’s  servant  and  the  messenger  who 
had  called  for  an  answer  to  Doctor  Chennery’s 
letter.  Shrowl,  it  appeared,  had  opened  the  in- 
terview by  delivering  his  master’s  message,  had 
then  produced  the  vicar’s  torn  letter  and  the  copy 
of  the  Plan,  and  had  announced  his  readiness  to 
part  with  the  latter  for  the  consideration  of  a 
five-pound  note.  The  messenger  had  explained 
that  he  had  no  power  to  treat  for  the  document, 
and  had  advised  Mr.  Treverton’s  servant  to  wait 
on  Doctor  Chennery’s  agent.  After  some  hesi- 
tation, Shrowl  had  decided  to  do  this,  on  pretense 
of  going  out  on  an  errand — had  seen  the  agent — 
had  been  questioned  about  how  he  became  pos- 
sessed of  the  copy — and,  finding  that  there  would 
be  no  chance  of  disposing  of  it  unless  he  an- 
swered all  inquiries,  had  related  the  circum- 
stances under  which  the  copy  had  been  made. 
After  hearing  his  statement,  the  agent  had  en- 
gaged to  apply  immediately  for  instructions  to 
Doctor  Chennery;  and  had  written  accordingly, 
mentioning  in  a postscript  that  he  had  seen  the 
transcribed  Plan,  and  had  ascertained  that  it 
really  exhibited  the  positions  of  doors,  stair- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


379 


cases,  and  rooms,  with  the  names  attached  to 
them. 

Resuming  his  own  letter,  Doctor  Chennery 
proceeded  to  say  that  he  must  now  leave  it  en- 
tirely to  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland  to  decide  what 
course  they  ought  to  adopt.  lie  had  already 
compromised  himself  a little  in  his  own  estima- 
tion, by  assuming  a character  which  really  did 
not  belong  to  him,  when  he  made  his  application 
to  Andrew  Treverton;  and  he  felt  he  could  per- 
sonally venture  no  further  in  the  affair,  either 
by  expressing  an  opinion  or  giving  any  advice, 
now  that  it  had  assumed  such  a totally  new  as- 
pect. He  felt  quite  sure  that  his  young  friends 
would  arrive  at  the  wise  and  the  right  decision, 
after  they  had  maturely  considered  the  matter  in 
all  its  bearings.  In  that  conviction,  he  had  in- 
structed his  man  of  business  not  to  stir  in  the 
affair  until  he  had  heard  from  Mr.  Frankland, 
and  to  be  guided  entirely  by  any  directions 
which  that  gentleman  might  give. 

“Directions!”  exclaimed  Rosamond,  crump- 
ling up  the  letter  in  a high  state  of  excitement 
as  soon  as  she  had  read  to  the  end  of  it.  “All 
the  directions  we  have  to  give  may  be  written  in 
a minute  and  read  in  a second!  What  in  the 
world  does  the  vicar  mean  by  talking  about 
maturo  consideration?  Of  course,”  cried  Ros- 
amond, looking,  womanlike,  straight  on  to  the 
purpose  she  had  in  view,  without  wasting  a 
thought  on  the  means  by  which  it  was  to  be 
achieved — “Of  course  we  give  the  man  his  five- 
pound  note,  and  get  the  Plan  by  return  of  post!” 


380 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Mr.  Frankland  shook  his  head  gravely.  6 ‘ Quite 
impossible,”  he  said.  “If  you  think  for  a mo- 
ment, my  dear,  you  will  surely  see  that  it  is  out 
of  the  question  to  traffic  with  a servant  for  infor- 
mation that  has  been  surreptitiously*  obtained 
from  his  master’s  library.” 

“Oh,  dear!  dear!  don’t  say  that!”  pleaded 
Rosamond,  looking  quite  aghast  at  the  view  her 
husband  took  of  the  matter.  “What  harm  are 
we  doing,  if  we  give  the  man  his  five  pounds? 
He  has  only  made  a copy  of  the  Plan ; he  has 
not  stolen  anything.” 

“He  has  stolen  information,  according  to  my 
idea  of  it,”  said  Leonard. 

“Well,  but  if  he  has,”  persisted  Rosamond, 
“what  harm  does  it  do  to  his  master?  In  my 
opinion  his  master  deserves  to  have  the  informa- 
tion stolen,  for  not  having  had  the  common  po- 
liteness to  send  it  to  the  vicar.  We  must  have 
the  Plan — oh,  Lenny,  don’t  shake  your  head, 
please! — we  must  have  it,  you  know  we  must! 
What  is  the  use  of  being  scrupulous  with  an  old 
wretch  (I  must  call  him  so,  though  he  is  my 
uncle)  who  won’t  conform  to  the  commonest 
usages  of  society?  You  can’t  deal  with  him — 
and  I am  sure  the  vicar  would  say  so,  if  he  was 
here — as  you  would  with  civilized  people,  or 
people  in  their  senses,  which  everybody  says  he 
is  not.  What  use  is  the  Plan  of  the  north  rooms 
to  him?  And,  besides,  if  it  is  of  any  use,  he 
has  got  the  original;  so  his  information  is  not 
stolen,  after  all,  because  he  has  got  it  the  whole 
time — has  he  not,  dear?” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET, 


381 


“Rosamond!  Rosamond!”  said  Leonard,  smil- 
ing at  his  wife’s  transparent  sophistries,  “you  are 
trying  to  reason  like  a Jesuit,” 

“I  don’t  care  who  I reason  like,  love,  as  long 
as  I get  the  Plan.” 

Mr.  Frankland  still  shook  his  head.  Finding 
her  arguments  of  no  avail,  Rosamond  wisely  re- 
sorted to  the  immemorial  weapon  of  her  sex— 
Persuasion ; using  it  at  such  close  quarters  and 
to  such  good  purposes  that  she  finally  won  her 
husband’s  reluctant  consent  to  a species  of  com- 
promise, which  granted  her  leave  to  give  direc- 
tions for  purchasing  the  copied  Plan  on  one 
condition. 

This  condition  was  that  they  should  send  back 
the  Plan  to  Mr.  Treverton  as  soon  as  it  had  served 
their  purpose;  making  a full  acknowledgment  to 
him  of  the  manner  in  which  it  had  been  obtained, 
and  pleading  in  justification  of  the  proceeding 
his  own  want  of  courtesy  in  withholding  infor- 
mation, of  no  consequence  in  itself,  which  any 
one  else  in  his  place  would  have  communicated 
as  a matter  of  course.  Rosamond  tried  hard  to 
obtain  the  withdrawal  or  modification  of  this 
condition;  but  her  husband’s  sensitive  pride  was 
not  to  be  touched,  on  that  point,  with  impunity, 
even  by  her  light  hand.  “I  have  done  too  much 
violence  already  to  my  own  convictions,”  he 
said,  “and  I will  now  do  no  more.  If  we  are 
to  degrade  ourselves  by  dealing  with  this  serv- 
ant, let  us  at  least  prevent  him  from  claiming  us 
as  his  accomplices.  Write  in  my  name,  Rosa- 
mond, to  Doctor  Chennery’s  man  of  business, 


382 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


and  say  that  we  are  willing  to  purchase  the  tran- 
scribed Plan  on  the  condition  that  I have  stated 
— which  condition  he  will  of  course  place  before 
the  servant  in  the  plainest  possible  terms.” 

“And  suppose  the  servant  refuses  to  risk  losing 
his  place,  which  he  must  do  if  he  accepts  your 
condition?”  said  Rosamond,  going  rather  reluc- 
tantly to  the  writing-table. 

“Let  us  not  worry  ourselves,  my  dear,  by  sup- 
posing anything.  Let  us  wait  and  hear  what 
happens,  and  act  accordingly.  When  you  are 
ready  to  write,  tell  me,  and  I will  dictate  your 
letter  on  this  occasion.  I wish  to  make  the 
vicar’s  man  of  business  understand  that  we  act 
as  we  do,  knowing,  in  the  first  place,  that  Mr. 
Andrew  Treverton  cannot  be  dealt  with  accord- 
ing to  the  established  usages  of  society;  and 
knowing  in  the  second  place,  that  the  informa- 
tion which  his  servant  offers  to  us  is  contained 
in  an  extract  from  a printed  book,  and  is  in  no 
way,  directly  or  indirectly,  connected  with  Mr. 
Treverton’s  private  affairs.  Now  that  you  have 
made  me  consent  to  this  compromise,  Rosamond, 
I must  justify  it  as  completely  as  possible  to  oth- 
ers as  well  as  to  myself.” 

Seeing  that  his  resolution  was  firmly  settled, 
Rosamond  had  tact  enough  to  abstain  from  say- 
ing anything  more.  The  letter  was  written  ex- 
actly as  Leonard  dictated  it.  When  it  had  been 
placed  in  the  post-bag,  and  when  the  other  let- 
ters of  the  morning  had  been  read  and  answered, 
Mr.  Frankland  reminded  his  wife  of  the  inten- 
tion she  had  expressed  at  breakfast-time  of  visit- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


383 


ing  the  north  garden,  and  requested  that  she 
would  take  him  there  with  her.  He  candidly 
acknowledged  that,  since  he  had  been  made  ac- 
quainted with  Doctor  Chennery’s  letter,  he  would 
give  five  times  the  sum  demanded  by  Shrowl  for 
the  copy  of  the  Plan  if  the  Myrtle  Room  could 
be  discovered,  without  assistance  from  any  one, 
before  the  letter  to  the  vicar’s  man  of  business 
was  put  into  the  post.  Nothing  would  give  him 
so  much  pleasure,  he  said,  as  to  be  able  to  throw 
it  into  the  fire,  and  to  send  a plain  refusal  to 
treat  for  the  Plan  in  its  place. 

They  went  into  the  north  garden,  and  there 
Rosamond’s  own  eyes  convinced  her  that  she 
had  not  the  slightest  chance  of  discovering  any 
vestige  of  a myrtle-bed  near  any  one  of  the  win- 
dows. From  the  garden  they  returned  to  the 
house,  and  had  the  door  opened  that  led  into  the 
north  hall. 

They  were  shown  the  place  on  the  pavement 
where  the  keys  had  been  found,  and  the  place  at 
the  top  of  the  first  flight  of  stairs  where  Mrs. 
Jazeph  had  been  discovered  when  the  alarm  was 
given.  At  Mr.  Frankland’s  suggestion,  the  door 
of  the  room  which  immediately  fronted  this  spot 
was  opened.  It  presented  a dreary  spectacle  of 
dust  and  dirt  and  dimness.  Some  old  pictures 
were  piled  against  one  of  the  walls,  some  tat- 
tered chairs  were  heaped  together  in  the  middle 
of  the  floor,  some  broken  china  lay  on  the  man- 
tel-piece, and  a rotten  cabinet,  cracked  through 
from  top  to  bottom,  stood  in  one  corner.  These 
few  relics  of  the  furnishing  and  fitting-up  of  the 


384 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


room  were  all  carefully  examined,  but  nothing 
of  the  smallest  importance — nothing  tending  in 
the  most  remote  degree  to  clear  up  the  mystery 
of  the  Myrtle  Room — was  discovered. 

“Shall  we  have  the  other  doors  opened?”  in- 
quired Rosamond  when  they  came  out  on  the 
landing  again. 

“I  think  it  will  be  useless,”  replied  her  hus- 
band. “Our  only  hope  of  finding  out  the  mys- 
tery of  the  Myrtle  Room — if  it  is  as  deeply  hidden 
from  us  as  I believe  it  to  be — is  by  searching  for 
it  in  that  room,  and  no  other.  The  search,  to  be 
effectual,  must  extend,  if  we  find  it  necessary,  to 
the  pulling  up  of  the  floor  and  wainscots — per- 
haps even  to  the  dismantling  of  the  walls.  We 
may  do  that  with  one  room  when  we  know  where 
it  is,  but  we  cannot,  by  any  process  short  of  pull- 
ing the  whole  side  of  the  house  down,  do  it  with 
the  sixteen  rooms,  through  which  our  present 
ignorance  condemns  us  to  wander  without  guide 
or  clew.  It  is  hopeless  enough  to  be  looking  for 
we  know  not  what;  but  let  us  discover,  if  we 
can,  where  the  four  walls  are  within  which  that 
unpromising  search  must  begin  and  end.  Surely 
the  floor  of  the  landing  must  be  dusty?  Are 
there  no  foot-marks  on  it,  after  Mrs.  Jazeph’s 
visit,  that  might  lead  us  to  the  right  door?” 

This  suggestion  led  to  a search  for  footsteps  on 
the  dusty  floor  of  the  landing,  but  nothing  of  the 
sort  could  be  found.  Matting  had  been  laid  down 
over  the  floor  at  some  former  period,  and  the  sur- 
face, torn,  ragged,  and  rotten  with  age,  was  too 
uneven  in  every  part  to  allow  the  dust  to  lie 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


385 


smoothly  on  it.  Here  and  there,  where  there 
was  a hole  through  to  the  boards  of  the  landing, 
Mr.  Frankland’s  servant  thought  he  detected 
marks  in  the  dust  which  might  have  been  pro- 
duced by  the  toe  or  the  heel  of  a shoe;  but  these 
faint  and  doubtful  indications  lay  yards  and 
yards  apart  from  each  other,  and  to  draw  any 
conclusion  of  the  slightest  importance  from  them 
was  simply  and  plainly  impossible.  After  spend- 
ing more  than  an  hour  in  examining  the  north 
side  of  the  house,  Rosamond  was  obliged  to  con- 
fess that  the  servants  were  right  when  they  pre- 
dicted, on  first  opening  the  door  in  the  hall,  that 
she  would  discover  nothing. 

“The  letter  must  go,  Lenuy,”  she  said,  when 
they  returned  to  the  breakfast-room. 

“There  is  no  help  for  it,”  answered  her  hus- 
band. “Send  away  the  post-bag,  and  let  us  say 
no  more  about  it.” 

The  letter  was  dispatched  by  that  day5s  post. 
In  the  remote  position  of  Porthgenna,  and  in  the 
unfinished  state  of  the  railroad  at  that  time,  two 
days  would  elapse  before  an  answer  from  London 
could  be  reasonably  hoped  for.  Feeling  that  it 
would  be  better  for  Rosamond  if  this  period  of 
suspense  was  passed  out  of  the  house,  Mr.  Frank- 
land  proposed  to  fill  up  the  time  by  a little  excur- 
sion along  the  coast  to  some  places  famous  for 
their  scenery,  which  would  be  likely  to  interest 
his  wife,  and  which  she  might  occupy  herself 
pleasantly  in  describing  on  the  spot  for  the  bene- 
fit of  her  husband.  This  suggestion  was  imme- 
diately acted  on.  The  young  couple  left  Porth- 
M— Vol.  16 


386 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


genna,  and  only  returned  on  the  evening  of  the 
second  day. 

On  the  morning  of  the  third  day  the  longed- 
for  letter  from  the  vicar’s  man  of  business  lay 
on  the  table  when  Leonard  and  Rosamond  en- 
tered the  breakfast- room.  Shrowl  had  decided 
to  accept  Mr.  Frankland’s  condition— first,  be- 
cause he  held  that  any  man  must  be  out  of  his 
senses  who  refused  a five-pound  note  when  it 
was  offered  to  him;  secondly,  because  he  be- 
lieved that  his  master  was  too  absolutely  de- 
pendent on  him  to  turn  him  away  for  any  cause 
whatever;  thirdly,  because,  if  Mr.  Treverton  did 
part  with  him,  he  was  not  sufficiently  attached 
to  his  place  to  care  at  all  about  losing  it.  Ac- 
cordingly the  bargain  had  been  struck  in  five 
minutes— and  there  was  the  copy  of  the  Plan, 
inclosed  with  the  letter  of  explanation  to  attest 
the  fact ! 

Rosamond  spread  the  all-important  document 
out  on  the  table  with  trembling  hands,  looked  it 
over  eagerly  for  a few  moments,  and  laid  her 
finger  on  the  square  that  represented  the  position 
of  the  Myrtle  Room. 

“Here  it  is!”  she  cried.  “Oh,  Lenny,  how  my 
heart  beats!  One,  two,  three,  four — the  fourth 
door  on  the  first-floor  landing  is  the  door  of  the 
Myrtle  Room!” 

She  would  have  called  at  once  for  the  keys  of 
the  north  rooms;  but  her  husband  insisted  on  her 
waiting  until  she  had  composed  herself  a little, 
and  until  she  had  taken  some  breakfast.  In 
spite  of  all  he  could  say,  the  meal  was  hurried 


THE  HEAD  SECRET. 


38? 


over  so  rapidly  that  in  ten  minutes  more  his 
wife’s  arm  was  in  his,  and  she  was  leading  him 
to  the  staircase. 

The  gardener’s  prognostication  about  the 
weather  had  been  verified:  it  had  turned  to  heat 
— heavy,  misty,  vaporous,  dull  heat.  One  white 
quivering  fog-cloud  spread  thinly  over  all  the 
heaven,  rolled  down  seaward  on  the  horizon  line, 
and  dulled  the  sharp  edges  of  the  distant  moor- 
land view.  The  sunlight  shone  pale  and  trem- 
bling; the  lightest,  highest  leaves  of  flowers  at 
open  windows  were  still;  the  domestic  animals 
lay  about  sleepily  in  dark  corners.  Chance 
household  noises  sounded  heavy  and  loud  in  the 
languid,  airless  stillness  which  the  heat  seemed 
to  hold  over  the  earth.  Down  in  the  servants’ 
hall,  the  usual  bustle  of  morning  work  was  sus- 
pended. When  Rosamond  looked  in,  on  her  way 
to  the  housekeeper’s  room  to  get  the  keys,  the 
women  were  fanning  themselves,  and  the  men 
were  sitting  with  their  coats  off.  They  were  all 
talking  peevishly  about  the  heat,  and  all  agree- 
ing that  such  a day  as  that,  in  the  month  of  June, 
they  had  never  known  and  never  heard  of  before. 

Rosamond  took  the  keys,  declined  the  house- 
keeper’s offer  to  accompany  her,  and  leading  her 
husband  along  the  passages,  unlocked  the  door  of 
the  north  hall. 

“How  unnaturally  cool  it  is  here!”  she  said, 
as  they  entered  the  deserted  place. 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  she  stopped,  and  took 
a firmer  hold  of  her  husband’s  arm. 

“Is  anything  the  matter?”  asked  Leonardo 


388 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“Is  the  change  to  the  damp  coolness  of  this  place 
affecting  you  in  any  way?” 

“No,  no,”  she  answered  hastily.  “I  am  far 
too  excited  to  feel  either  heat  or  damp,  as  I might 
feel  them  at  other  times.  But,  Lenny,  suppos- 
ing your  guess  about  Mrs.  Jazeph  is  right? — ” 
“Yes?” 

“And  supposing  we  discover  the  Secret  of 
the  Myrtle  Room,  might  it  not  turn  out  to  be 
something  concerning  my  father  or  my  mother 
which  we  ought  not  to  know?  1 thought  of  that 
when  Mrs.  Pentreath  offered  to  accompany  us,  and 
it  determined  me  to  come  here  alone  with  you.” 
“It  is  just  likely  that  the  Secret  might  be 
something  we  ought  to  know,”  replied  Mr. 
Frankland,  after  a moment’s  thought.  “In  any 
case,  my  idea  about  Mrs.  Jazeph  is,  after  all, 
only  a guess  in  the  dark.  However,  Rosamond, 
if  you  feel  any  hesitation — ” 

“No!  come  what  may  of  it,  Lenny,  we  can’t 
go  back  now.  Give  me  your  hand  again.  "We 
have  traced  the  mystery  thus  far  together,  and 
together  we  will  find  it  out.” 

She  ascended  the  staircase,  leading  him  after 
her,  as  she  spoke.  On  the  landing  she  looked 
again  at  the  Plan,  and  satisfied  herself  that  the 
first  impression  she  had  derived  from  it,  of  the 
position  of  the  Myrtle  Room,  was  correct.  She 
counted  the  doors  on  to  the  fourth,  and  looked 
out  from  the  bunch  the  key  numbered  “IV.,” 
and  put  it  in  the  lock. 

Before  she  turned  it  she  paused,  and  looked 
round  at  her  husband. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


389 


He  was  standing  by  her  side,  with  his  patient 
face  turned  expectantly  toward  the  door.  She 
put  her  right  hand  on  the  key,  turned  it  slowly 
in  the  lock,  drew  him  closer  to  her  with  her  left 
hand,  and  paused  again. 

“I  don’t  know  what  has  come  to  me,”  she 
whispered  faintly.  “I  feel  as  if  I was  afraid  to 
push  open  the  door.” 

“Your  hand  is  cold,  Rosamond.  Wait  a little 
— lock  the  door  again — put  it  off  till  another 
day.” 

He  felt  his  wife’s  fingers  close  tighter  and 
tighter  on  his  hand  while  he  said  those  words. 
Then  there  was  an  instant  — one  memorable, 
breathless  instant,  never  to  be  forgotten  after- 
ward— of  utter  silence.  Then  he  heard  the 
sharp,  cracking  sound  of  the  opening  door,  and 
felt  himself  drawn  forward  suddenly  into  a 
changed  atmosphere,  and  knew  that  Rosamond 
and  he  were  in  the  Myrtle  Room. 


CHAPTER  Y. 

THE  MYRTLE  ROOM. 

A broad,  square  window,  with  small  panes 
and  dark  sashes ; dreary  yellow  light,  glimmering 
through  the  dirt  of  half  a century  crusted  on  the 
glass;  purer  rays  striking  across  the  dimness 
through  the  fissures  of  three  broken  panes ; dust 
floating  upward,  pouring  downward,  rolling 
smoothly  round  and  round  in  the  still  atmos- 


390 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


phere;  lofty,  bare,  faded  red  walls;  chairs  in 
confusion,  tables  placed  awry;  a tall  black  book- 
case, with  an  open  door  half  dropping  from  its 
hinges;  a pedestal,  with  a broken  bust  lying  in 
fragments  at  its  feet;  a ceiling  darkened  by 
stains,  a floor  whitened  by  dust — such  was  the 
aspect  of  the  Myrtle  Room  when  Rosamond  first 
entered  it,  leading  her  husband  by  the  hand. 

After  passing  the  doorway,  she  slowly  ad- 
vanced a few  steps,  and  then  stopped,  waiting 
with  every  sense  on  the  watch,  with  every  fac- 
ulty strung  up  to  the  highest  pitch  of  expectation 
— waiting  in  the  ominous  stillness,  in  the  forlorn 
solitude,  for  the  vague  Something  which  the 
room  might  contain,  which  might  rise  visibly 
before  her,  which  might  sound  audibly  behind 
her,  which  might  touch  her  on  a sudden  from 
above,  from  below,  from  either  side.  A min- 
ute or  more  she  breathlessly  waited ; and  noth- 
ing appeared,  nothing  sounded,  nothing  touched 
her.  The  silence  and  the  solitude  had  their 
secret  to  keep,  and  kept  it. 

She  looked  round  at  her  husband.  # His  face, 
so  quiet  and  composed  at  other  times,  expressed 
doubt  and  uneasiness  now.  His  disengaged 
hand  was  outstretched,  and  moving  backward 
and  forward  and  up  and  down,  in  the  vain  at- 
tempt to  touch  something  which  might  enable 
him  to  guess  at  the  position  in  which  he  was 
placed.  His  look  and  action,  as  he  stood  in  that 
new  and  strange  sphere,  the  mute  appeal  which 
he  made  so  sadly  and  so  unconsciously  to  his 
wife’s  loving  help,  restored  Rosamond’s  self- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


391 


possession  by  recalling  her  heart  to  the  dearest 
of  all  its  interests,  to  the  holiest  of  all  its  cares. 
Her  eyes,  fixed  so  distrustfully  but  the  moment 
before  on  the  dreary  spectacle  of  neglect  and  ruin 
which  spread  around  them,  turned  fondly  to  her 
husband’s  face,  radiant  with  the  unfathomable 
brightness  of  pity  and  love.  She  bent  quickly 
across  him,  caught  his  outstretched  arm,  and 
pressed  it  to  his  side, 

“Don’t  do  that,  darling,”  she  said,  gently;  “I 
don’t  like  to  see  it.  It  looks  as  if  you  had  for- 
gotten that  I was  with  you — as  if  you  were  left 
alone  and  helpless.  What  need  have  you  of 
your  sense  of  touch,  when  you  have  got  me? 
Did  you  hear  me  open  the  door,  Lenny?  Do  you 
know  that  we  are  in  the  Myrtle  Room?” 

“What  did  you  see,  Rosamond,  when  you 
opened  the  door?  What  do  you  see  now?”  He 
asked  those  questions  rapidly  and  eagerly,  in  a 
whisper. 

“Nothing  but  dust  and  dirt  and  desolation. 
The  loneliest  moor  in  Cornwall  is  not  so  lonely 
looking  as  this  room;  but  there  is  nothing  to 
alarm  us,  nothing  (except  one’s  own  fancy)  that 
suggests  an  idea  of  danger  of  any  kind.” 

“ What  made  you  so  long  before  you  spoke  to 
me,  Rosamond?” 

“I  was  frightened,  love,  on  first  entering  the 
room — not  at  what  I saw,  but  at  my  own  fan- 
ciful ideas  cf  what  I might  see.  I was  child 
enough  to  be  afraid  of  something  starting  out  of 
the  walls,  or  of  something  rising  through  the 
floor;  in  short,  of  1 hardly  know  what.  I have 


392 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


got  over  those  fears,  Lenny,  hut  a certain  dis- 
trust of  the  room  still  clings  to  me.  Do  you  feel 
it?” 

“I  feel  something  like  it,”  he  replied  uneasily. 
“ I feel  as  if  the  night  that  is  always  before  my 
eyes  was  darker  to  me  in  this  place  than  in  any 
other.  Where  are  we  standing  now?” 

‘ 4 Just  inside  the  door.” 

“Does  the  floor  look  safe  to  walk  on?”  He 
tried  it  suspiciously  with  his  foot  as  he  put  the 
question. 

‘ 4 Quite  safe,”  replied  Rosamond.  “It  would 
never  support  the  furn’ture  that  is  on  it  if  it  was 
so  rotten  as  to  be  dangerous.  Come  across  the 
room  with  me,  and  try  it.”  With  these  words 
she  led  him  slowly  to  the  window. 

“The  air  seems  as  if  it  was  nearer  to  me,”  he 
said,  bending  his  face  forward  toward  the  lowest 
of  the  broken  panes.  “What  is  before  us  now?” 

She  told  him,  describing  minutely  the  size  and 
appearance  of  the  window.  He  turned  from  it 
carelessly,  as  if  that  part  of  the  room  had  no  in- 
terest for  him.  Rosamond  still  lingered  near  the 
window,  to  try  if  she  could  feel  a breath  of  the 
outer  atmosphere.  There  was  a momentary  si- 
lence, which  was  broken  by  her  husband. 

“What  are  you  doing  now?”  he  asked  anx- 
iously. 

“I  am  looking  out  at  one  of  the  broken  panes 
of  glass,  and  trying  to  get  some  air,”  answered 
Rosamond.  “The  shadow  of  the  house  is  below 
me,  resting  on  the  lonely  garden;  but  there  is  nc» 
coolness  breathing  up  from  it.  1 see  the  tall 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


393 


weeds  rising  straight  and  still,  and  the  tangled 
wild -flowers  interlacing  themselves  heavily. 
There  is  a tree  near  me,  and  the  leaves  look  as  if 
they  were  all  struck  motionless.  Away  to  tho 
left,  there  is  a peep  of  white  sea  and  tawny  sand 
quivering  in  the  yellow  heat.  There  are  no 
clouds;  there  is  no  blue  sky.  The  mist  quenches 
the  brightness  of  the  sunlight,  and  lets  nothing 
but  the  fire  of  it  through.  There  is  something 
threatening  in  the  sky,  and  the  earth  seems  to 
know  it!” 

“But  the  room!  the  room!”  said  Leonard, 
drawing  her  aside  from  the  window.  “Never 
mind  the  view;  tell  me  what  the  room  is  like — 
exactly  what  it  is  like.  I shall  not  feel  easy 
about  you,  Rosamond,  if  you  don’t  describe 
everything  to  me  just  as  it  is.” 

“My  darling!  You  know  you  can  depend  on 
my  describing  everything.  I am  only  doubting 
where  to  begin,  and  how  to  make  sure  of  seeing 
for  you  what  you  are  likely  to  think  most  worth 
looking  at.  Here  is  an  old  ottoman  against  the 
wall — the  wall  where  the  window  is.  I will  take 
off  my  apron  and  dust  the  seat  for  you ; and  then 
you  can  sit  down  and  listen  comfortably  while  I 
tell  you  before  we  think  of  anything  else,  what 
the  room  is  like,  to  begin  with.  First  of  all,  I 
suppose,  I must  make  you  understand  how  large 
it  is?” 

“Yes,  that  is  the  first  thing.  Try  if  you  can 
compare  it  with  any  room  that  I was  familiar 
with  before  I lost  my  sight.” 

Rosamond  looked  backward  and  forward,  from 


394 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


wall  to  wall — then  went  to  the  fire-place,  and 
walked  slowly  down  the  length  of  the  room, 
counting  her  steps.  Pacing  over  the  dusty  floor 
with  a dainty  regularity  and  a childish  satisfac- 
tion in  looking  down  at  the  gay  pink  rosettes  on 
her  morning  shoes;  holding  up  her  crisp,  bright 
muslin  dress  out  of  the  dirt,  and  showing  the 
fanciful  embroidery  of  her  petticoat,  and  the 
glossy  stockings  that  fitted  her  little  feet  and 
ankles  like  a second  skin,  she  moved  through 
the  dreariness,  the  desolation,  the  dingy  ruin  of 
the  scene  around  her,  the  most  charming  living 
contrast  to  its  dead  gloom  that  youth,  health, 
and  beauty  could  present. 

Arrived  at  the  bottom  of  the  room,  she  re- 
flected a little,  and  said  to  her  husband — 

“Do  you  remember  the  blue  drawing-room, 
Lenny,  in  your  father’s  house  at  Long  Beckley? 
I think  this  room  is  quite  as  large,  if  not  larger.” 
“What  are  the  walls  like?”  asked  Leonard, 
placing  his  hand  on  the  wall  behind  him  while 
he  spoke.  “They  are  covered  with  paper,  are 
they  not?” 

“Yes;  with  faded  red  paper,  except  on  one  side, 
where  strips  have  been  torn  off  and  thrown  on  the 
floor.  There  is  wainscoting  round  the  walls.  It 
is  cracked  in  many  places,  and  has  ragged  holes 
in  it,  which  seem  to  have  been  made  by  the  rats 
and  mice.” 

“Are  there  any  pictures  on  the  walls?” 

“No.  There  is  an  empty  frame  over  the  fire- 
place. And  opposite — I mean  just  above  where 
I am  standing  now — there  is  a small  mirror, 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


395 


cracked  iti  the  center,  with  broken  branches  for 
candlesticks  projecting  on  either  side  of  it. 
Above  that,  again,  there  is  a stag’s  head  and 
antlers;  some  of  the  face  has  dropped  away,  and 
a perfect  maze  of  cobwebs  is  stretched  between 
the  horns.  On  the  other  walls  there  are  large 
nails,  with  more  cobwebs  hanging  down  from 
them  heavy  with  dirt — but  no  pictures  anywhere. 
Now  you  know  everything  about  the  walls. 
What  is  the  next  thing?  The  floor?” 

“1  think,  Rosamond,  my  feet  have  told  me 
already  what  the  floor  is  like?” 

“They  may  have  told  you  that  it  is  bare,  dear; 
but  I can  tell  you  more  than  that.  It  slopes 
down  from  every  side  toward  the  middle  of  the 
room.  It  is  covered  thick  with  dust,  which  is 
swept  about,  I suppose,  by  the  wind  blowing 
through  the  broken  panes  into  strange,  wavy, 
feathery  shapes  that  quite  hide  the  floor  beneath. 
Lenny!  suppose  these  boards  should  be  made  to 
take  up  anywhere ! If  we  discover  nothing  to- 
day, we  will  have  them  swept  to-morrow.  In 
the  meantime,  I must  go  on  telling  you  about 
the  room,  must  I not?  You  know  already  what 
the  size  of  it  is,  what  the  window  is  like,  what 
the  walls  are  like,  what  the  floor  is  like.  Is  there 
anything  else  before  we  come  to  the  furniture. 
Oh,  yes ! the  ceiling — for  that  completes  the  shell 
of  the  room.  1 can’t  see  much  of  it,  it  is  so  high. 
There  are  great  cracks  and  stains  from  one  end 
to  the  other,  and  the  plaster  has  come  away  in 
patches  in  some  places.  The  center  ornament 
seems  to  be  made  of  alternate  rows  of  small 


396 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


plaster  cabbages  and  large  plaster  lozenges. 
Two  bits  of  chain  hang  down  from  the  middle, 
which,  I suppose,  once  held  a chandelier.  The 
cornice  is  so  dingy  that  I can  hardly  tell  what 
pattern  it  represents.  It  is  very  broad  and  heavy, 
and  it  looks  in  some  places  as  if  it  had  once  been 
colored,  and  that  is  all  I can  say  about  it.  Do 
you  feel  as  if  you  thoroughly  understood  the 
whole  room  now,  Lenny?” 

4 ‘Thoroughly,  my  love;  I have  the  same  clear 
picture  of  it  in  my  mind  which  you  always  give 
me  of  everything  you  see.  You  need  waste  no 
more  time  on  me.  We  may  now  devote  our- 
selves to  the  purpose  for  which  we  came 
here.” 

At  those  last  words,  the  smile  which  had  been 
dawning  on  Rosamond’s  face  when  her  husband 
addressed  her,  vanished  from  it  in  a moment. 
She  stole  close  to  his  side,  and,  bending  down 
over  him,  with  her  arm  on  his  shoulder,  said,  in 
low,  whispering  tones — 

“When  we  had  the  other  room  opened,  oppo- 
site the  landing,  we  began  by  examining  the  fur- 
niture. W e thought — if  you  remember — that  the 
mystery  of  the  Myrtle  Room  might  be  connected 
with  hidden  valuables  that  had  been  stolen,  or 
hidden  papers  that  ought  to  have  been  destroyed, 
or  hidden  stains  and  traces  of  some  crime,  which 
even  a chair  or  a table  might  betray.  Shall  we 
examine  the  furniture  here?” 

“Is  there  much  of  it,  Rosamond?” 

“More  than  there  was  in  the  other  room,”  she 
answered. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


397 


“More  than  you  can  examine  in  one  morn- 
ing?” 

“No;  I think  not.” 

“Then  begin  with  the  furniture,  if  you  have 
no  better  plan  to  propose.  I am  but  a helpless 
adviser  at  such  a crisis  as  this.  I must  leave  the 
responsibilities  of  decision,  after  all,  to  rest  on 
your  shoulders.  Yours  are  the  eyes  that  look 
and  the  hands  that  search;  and  if  the  secret  of 
Mrs.  Jazeph’s  reason  for  warning  you  against 
entering  this  room  is  to  be  found  by  seeking  in 
the  room,  you  will  find  it — ” 

“And  you  will  know  it,  Lenny,  as  soon  as  it 
is  found.  I won’t  hear  you  talk,  love,  as  if  there 
was  any  difference  between  us,  or  any  superiority 
in  my  position  over  yours.  Now,  let  me  see. 
What  shall  I begin  with?  The  tall  book-case 
opposite  the  window?  or  the  dingy  old  writing- 
table,  in  the  recess  behind  the  fire-place?  Those 
are  the  two  largest  pieces  of  furniture  that  I can 
see  in  the  room.” 

“Begin  with  the  book-case,  my  dear,  as  you 
seem  to  have  noticed  that  first.” 

Rosamond  advanced  a few  steps  toward  the 
book-case— then  stopped,  and  looked  aside  sud- 
denly to  the  lower  end  of  the  room. 

“Lenny!  I forgot  one  thing,  when  1 was  tell- 
ing you  about  the  walls,”  she  said.  “There  are 
two  doors  in  the  room  besides  the  door  we  came 
in  at.  They  are  both  in  the  wall  to  the  right, 
as  I stand  now  with  my  back  to  the  window. 
Each  is  at  the  same  distance  from  the  corner, 
and  each  is  of  the  same  size  and  appearance. 


398 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Don’t  you  think  we  ought  to  open  them  and  see 
where  they  lead  to?” 

“Certainly.  But  are  the  keys  in  the  locks?” 

Rosamond  approached  more  clcsely  to  the 
doors,  and  answered  in  the  affirmative. 

“Open  them,  then,”  said  Leonard.  “Stop! 
not  by  yourself.  Take  me  with  you.  I don’t 
like  the  idea  of  sitting  here,  and  leaving  you  to 
open  those  doors  by  yourself.” 

Rosamond  retraced  her  steps  to  the  place  where 
he  was  sitting,  and  then  led  him  with  her  to  the 
door  that  was  furthest  from  the  window.  “Sup- 
pose there  should  be  some  dreadful  sight  behind 
it!”  she  said,  trembling  a little,  as  she  stretched 
out  her  hand  toward  the  key. 

“Try  to  suppose  (what  is  much  more  probable) 
that  it  only  leads  into  another  room,”  suggested 
Leonard. 

Rosamond  threw  the  door  wide  open,  sudden- 
ly. Her  husband  was  right.  It  merely  led  into 
the  next  room. 

They  passed  on  to  the  second  door.  “Can  this 
one  serve  the  same  purpose  as  the  other?”  said 
Rosamond,  slowly  and  distrustfully  turning  the 
key. 

She  opened  it  as  she  had  opened  the  first  door, 
put  her  head  inside  it  for  an  instant,  drew  back, 
shuddering,  and  closed  it  again  violently,  with  a 
faint  exclamation  of  disgust. 

“Don’t  be  alarmed,  Lenny,”  she  said,  leading 
him  away  abruptly,  “The  door  only  opens  on  a 
large,  empty  cupboard.  But  there  are  quantities 
of  horrible,  crawling  brown  creatures  about  the 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


399 


wall  inside.  I have  shut  them  in  again  in  their 
darkness  and  their  secrecy;  and  now  I am  going 
to  take  you  back  to  your  seat,  before  we  find  out, 
next,  what  the  book-case  contains.” 

The  door  of  the  upper  part  of  the  book-case, 
hanging  open  and  half  dropping  from  its  hinges, 
showed  the  emptiness  of  the  shelves  on  one  side 
at  a glance.  The  corresponding  door,  when 
Rosamond  pulled  it  open,  disclosed  exactly  the 
same  spectacle  of  barrenness  on  the  other  side. 
Over  every  shelf  there  spread  the  same  dreary 
accumulation  of  dust  and  dirt,  without  a vestige 
of  a book,  without  even  a stray  scrap  of  paper 
lying  anywhere  in  a corner  to  attract  the  eye, 
from  top  to  bottom. 

The  lower  portion  of  the  bookcase  was  divided 
into  three  cupboards.  In  the  door  of  one  of  the 
three,  the  rusty  key  remained  in  the  lock.  Rosa- 
mond turned  it  with  some  difficulty,  and  looked 
into  the  cupboard.  At  the  back  of  it  were  scat- 
tered a pack  of  playing-cards,  brown  with  dirt. 
A morsel  of  torn,  tangled  muslin  lay  among 
them,  which,  when  Rosamond  spread  it  out, 
proved  to  be  the  remains  of  a clergyman’s  band. 
In  one  corner  she  found  a broken  corkscrew  and 
the  winch  of  a fishing-rod ; in  another,  some 
stumps  of  tobacco-pipes,  a few  old  medicine  bot- 
tles and  a dog’s-eared  peddler’s  song-book.  These 
were  all  the  objects  that  the  cupboard  contained. 
After  Rosamond  had  scrupulously  described  each 
one  of  them  to  her  husband,  just  as  she  found  it, 
she  went  on  to  the  second  cupboard.  On  trying 
the  door,  it  turned  out  not  to  be  locked.  On 


400 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


looking  inside,  she  discovered  nothing  but  some 
pieces  of  blackened  cotton  wool,  and  the  remains 
of  a jeweler’s  packing-case. 

The  third  door  was  locked,  but  the  rusty  key 
from  the  first  cupboard  opened  it.  Inside,  there 
was  but  one  object — a small  wooden  box,  banded 
round  with  a piece  of  tape,  the  two  edges  of 
which  were  fastened  together  by  a seal.  Rosa- 
mond’s flagging  interest  rallied  instantly  at  this 
discovery.  She  described  the  box  to  her  hus- 
band, and  asked  if  he  thought  she  was  justified 
in  breaking  the  seal. 

“Can  you  see  anything  written  on  the  cover?” 
he  inquired. 

Rosamond  carried  the  box  to  the  window,  blew 
the  dust  off  the  top  of  it,  and  read,  on  a parch- 
ment label  nailed  to  the  cover:  “Papers.  John 
Arthur  Treverton.  1760.” 

“I  think  you  may  take  the  responsibility  of 
breaking  the  seal,”  said  Leonard.  “If  those 
papers  had  been  of  any  family  importance,  they 
could  scarcely  have  been  left  forgotten  in  an  old 
bookcase  by  your  father  and  his  executors.” 
Rosamond  broke  the  seal,  then  looked  up 
doubtfully  at  her  husband  before  she  opened 
the  box.  “It  seems  mere  waste  of  time  to  look 
into  this,”  she  said.  “How  can  a box  that  has 
not  been  opened  since  seventeen  hundred  and 
sixty  help  us  to  discover  the  mystery  of  Mrs. 
Jazeph  and  the  Myrtle  Room?” 

“But  do  we  know  that  it  has  not  been  opened 
since  then?”  said  Leonard.  “Might  not  the 
tape  and  seal  have  been  put  round  it  by  any- 


THE  HEAD  SECRET. 


401 


body  at  some  more  recent  period  of  time?  You 
can  judge  best,  because  you  can  see  if  there  is 
any  inscription  on  the  tape,  or  any  signs  to  form 
an  opinion  by  upon  the  seal.” 

“The  seal  is  a blank,  Lenny,  except  that  it  has 
a flower  like  a forget-me-not  in  the  middle.  I 
can  see  no  mark  of  a pen  on  either  side  of  the 
tape.  Anybody  in  the  world  might  have  opened 
the  box  before  me,”  she  continued,  forcing  up 
the  lid  easily  with  her  hands,  “for  the  lock  is  no 
protection  to  it.  The  wood  cf  the  cover  is  so  rot- 
ten that  1 have  pulled  the  staple  out,  and  left  it 
sticking  by  itself  in  the  lock  below.” 

On  examination,  the  box  proved  to  be  full  of 
papers.  At  the  top  of  the  uppermost  packet  were 
written  these  words : “Election  expenses.  I won 
by  four  votes.  Price  fifty  pounds  each.  J.  A. 
Treverton.”  The  next  layer  of  papers  had  no 
inscription.  Rosamond  opened  them,  and  read 
on  the  first  leaf : 4 ‘ Birthday  Ode.  Respectfully 
addressed  to  the  Maecenas  of  modern  times  in 
his  poetic  retirement  at  Porthgenna.”  Below 
this  production  appeared  a collection  of  old  bills, 
old  notes  of  invitation,  old  doctor’s  prescriptions, 
and  old  leaves  of  betting-books,  tied  together  with 
a piece  of  whipcord.  Last  of  all,  there  lay  on 
the  bottom  of  the  box  one  thin  leaf  of  paper,  the 
visible  side  of  which  presented  a perfect  blank. 
Rosamond  took  it  up,  turned  it  to  look  at  the 
other  side,  and  saw  some  faint  ink-lines  crossing 
each  other  in  various  directions,  and  having  let- 
ters of  the  alphabet  attached  to  them  in  certain 
places.  She  had  made  her  husband  acquainted 


402 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


with  the  contents  of  all  the  other  papers,  as  a 
matter  of  course;  and  when  she  had  described 
this  last  paper  to  him,  he  explained  to  her  that 
the  lines  and  letters  represented  a mathematical 
problem 

“The  bookcase  tells  us  nothing,”  said  Rosa- 
mond, slowly  putting  the  papers  back  in  the  box. 
“Shall  we  try  the  writing-table  by  the  fireplace 
next?” 

“What  does  it  look  like,  Rosamond?” 

“It  has  two  rows  of  drawers  down  each  side; 
and  the  whole  top  is  made  in  an  odd,  old-fash- 
ioned way  to  slope  upward,  like  a very  large 
writing-desk.” 

“Does  the  top  open?” 

Rosamond  went  to  the  table,  examined  it  nar- 
rowly, and  then  tried  to  raise  the  top.  “It  is 
made  to  open,  for  I see  the  keyhole,”  she  said. 
“But  it  is  locked.  And  all  the  drawers,”  she 
continued,  trying  them  one  after  another,  “are 
locked  too.” 

‘ ‘ Is  there  no  key  in  any  of  them  ? ’ 5 asked  Leonard. 

“Not  a sign  of  one.  But  the  top  feels  so  loose 
that  I really  think  it  might  be  forced  open — as  I 
forced  the  little  box  open  just  now — by  a pair  of 
stronger  hands  than  I can  boast  of.  Let  me  take 
you  to  the  table,  dear;  it  may  give  way  to  your 
strength,  though  it  will  not  to  mine.” 

She  placed  her  husband’s  hands  carefully  under 
the  ledge  formed  by  the  overhanging  top  of  the 
table.  ITe  exerted  his  whole  strength  to  force 
it  up;  but  in  this  case  the  wood  was  sound,  the 
lock  held,  and  all  his  efforts  were  in  vain. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


403 


“Must  we  send  for  a locksmith?”  asked  Rosa- 
mond, with  a look  of  disappointment. 

“If  the  table  is  of  any  value,  we  must,”  re- 
turned her  husband.  “If  not,  a screwdriver 
and  a hammer  will  open  both  the  top  and  the 
drawers  in  anybody’s  hands.” 

“In  that  case,  Lenny,  I wish  we  had  brought 
them  with  us  when  we  came  into  the  room,  for 
the  only  value  of  the  table  lies  in  the  secrets  that 
it  may  be  hiding  from  us.  I shall  not  feel  satis- 
fied until  you  and  I know  what  there  is  inside  of 
it  ” 

While  saying  these  words,  she  took  her  hus- 
band’s hand  to  lead  him  back  to  his  seat.  As 
they  passed  before  the  fireplace,  he  stepped  upon 
the  bare  stone  hearth;  and,  feeling  some  new 
substance  under  his  feet,  instinctively  stretched 
out  the  hand  that  was  free.  It  touched  a marble 
tablet,  with  figures  on  it  in  bass-relief,  which  had 
been  let  into  the  middle  of  the  chimney-piece. 
He  stopped  immediately,  and  asked  what  the 
object  was  that  his  fingers  had  accidentally 
touched. 

“A  piece  of  sculpture,”  said  Rosamond.  “I 
did  not  notice  it  before.  It  is  not  very  large  and 
not  particularly  attractive,  according  to  my  taste. 
So  far  as  I can  tell,  it  seems  to  be  intended  to 
represent — ” 

Leonard  stopped  her  before  she  could  say  any 
more.  “Let  me  try,  for  once,  if  I can’t  make 
a discovery  for  myself,”  he  said,  a little  impa- 
tiently. “Let  me  try  if  my  fingers  won’t  tell 
me  what  this  sculpture  is  meant  to  represent,” 


404 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


He  passed  his  hands  carefully  over  the  bass- 
relief  (Rosamond  watching  their  slightest  move- 
ment with  silent  interest,  the  while),  considered 
a little,  and  said : 

“Is  there  not  a figure  of  a man  sitting  down, 
in  the  right-hand  corner?  And  are  there  not 
rocks  and  trees,  very  stiffly  done,  high  up,  at 
the  left-hand  side?” 

Rosamond  looked  at  him  tenderly,  and  smiled. 
“My  poor  dear !”  she  said.  “Your  man  sitting 
down  is,  in  reality,  a miniature  copy  of  the  fa- 
mous ancient  statue  of  Niobeand  her  child;  your 
rocks  are  marble  imitations  of  clouds,  and  your 
stiffly  done  trees  are  arrows  darting  out  from 
some  invisible  Jupiter  or  Apollo,  or  other  heathen 
god.  Ah,  Lenny,  Lenny!  you  can’t  trust  your 
touch,  love,  as  you  can  trust  me!” 

A momentary  shade  of  vexation  passed  across 
his  face;  but  it  vanished  the  instant  she  took  his 
hand  again  to  lead  him  back  to  his  seat.  He 
drew  her  to  him  gently  and  kissed  her  cheek. 
“You  are  right,  Rosamond,”  he  said.  “The 
one  faithful  friend  to  me  in  my  blindness,  who 
never  fails,  is  my  wife.” 

Seeing  him  look  a little  saddened,  and  feeling, 
with  the  quick  intuition  of  a woman’s  affection, 
that  he  was  thinking  of  the  days  when  he  had 
enjoyed  the  blessing  of  sight,  Rosamond  returned 
abruptly,  as  soon  as  she  saw  him  seated  once 
more  on  the  ottoman,  to  the  subject  of  the  Myrtle 
Room. 

“Where  shall  I look  next,  dear?”  she  said. 
“The  bookcase  we  have  examined.  The  writ- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


405 


ing- table  we  must  wait  to  examine.  What  else 
is  there  that  has  a cupboard  or  a drawer  in  it?” 
She  looked  round  her  in  perplexity ; then  walked 
away  toward  the  part  of  the  room  to  which  her 
attention  had  been  last  drawn — the  part  where 
the  fireplace  was  situated. 

“ I thought  I noticed  something  here,  Lenny, 
when  I passed  just  now  with  you,”  she  said,  ap- 
proaching the  second  recess  behind  the  mantel- 
piece,  corresponding  with  the  recess  in  which  the 
writing-table  stood. 

She  looked  into  the  place  closely,  and  detected 
in  a corner,  darkened  by  the  shadow  of  the  heavy 
projecting  mantel-piece,  a narrow,  rickety  little 
table,  made  of  the  commonest  mahogany — the 
frailest,  poorest,  least  conspicuous  piece  of  fur- 
niture in  the  whole  room.  She  pushed  it  out 
contemptuously  into  the  light  with  her  foot.  It 
ran  on  clumsy  old-fashioned  casters  and  creaked 
wearily  as  it  moved. 

“Lenny,  I have  found  another  table,”  said 
Rosamond.  “A  miserable,  forlorn-looking  little 
thing,  lost  in  a corner.  I have  just  pushed  it 
into  the  light,  and  I have  discovered  one  drawer 
in  it.  ” She  paused  and  tried  to  open  the  drawer ; 
but  it  resisted  her.  “Another  lock!”  she  ex- 
claimed, impatiently.  “Even  this  wretched 
thing  is  closed  against  us!” 

She  pushed  the  table  sharply  away  with  her 
hand,  It  swayed  on  its  frail  legs,  tottered,  and 
fell  over  on  the  floor — fell  as  heavily  as  a table 
of  twice  its  size — fell  with  a shock  that  rang 
through  the  room,  and  repeated  itself  again 


406 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


and  again  in  the  echoes  of  the  lonesome  north 
hall. 

Rosamond  ran  to  her  husband,  seeing  him 
start  from  his  seat  in  alarm,  and  told  him  what 
had  happened.  “You  call  it  a little  table,”  he 
replied,  in  astonishment.  “It  fell  like  one  of  the 
largest  pieces  of  furniture  in  the  room!” 

“Surely  there  must  have  been  something  heavy 
in  the  drawer!”  said  Rosamond,  approaching  the 
table  with  her  spirits  still  fluttered  by  the  shock 
of  its  unnaturally  heavy  fall.  After  waiting  for 
a few  moments  to  give  the  dust  which  it  had 
raised,  and  which  still  hung  over  it  in  thick  lazy 
clouds,  time  to  disperse,  she  stooped  down  and 
examined  it.  It  was  cracked  across  the  top  from 
end  to  end,  and  the  lock  had  been  broken  away 
from  its  fastenings  by  the  fall. 

She  set  the  table  up  again  carefully,  drew  out 
the  drawer,  and,  after  a glance  at  its  contents, 
turned  to  her  husband.  “I  knew  it,”  she  said, 
“I  knew  there  must  be  something  heavy  in  the 
drawer.  It  is  full  of  pieces  of  copper-ore,  like 
those  specimens  of  my  father’s,  Lenny,  from 
Porthgerma  mine.  VYait!  I think  I feel  some- 
thing else,  as  far  away  at  the  back  here  as  my 
hand  can  reach.” 

She  extricated  from  the  lumps  of  ore  at  the 
back  of  the  drawer  a small  circular  picture-frame 
of  black  wood,  about  the  size  of  an  ordinary 
hand-glass.  It  came  out  with  the  front  part 
downward,  and  with  the  area  which  its  circle 
inclosed  filled  up  by  a thin  piece  of  wood,  of  the 
sort  which  is  used  at  the  backs  of  small  frames 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


407 


to  keep  drawings  and  engravings  steady  in  them. 
This  piece  of  wood  (only  secured  to  the  back  of 
the  frame  by  one  nail)  had  been  forced  out  of  its 
place,  probably  by  the  overthrow  of  the  table;  and 
when  Rosamond  took  the  frame  out  of  the  drawer, 
she  observed  between  it  and  the  dislodged  piece 
of  wood  the  end  of  a morsel  of  paper,  apparently 
folded  many  times  over,  so  as  to  occupy  the  small- 
es  t possible  space.  She  drew  out  the  piece  of 
paper,  laid  it  aside  on  the  table  without  unfold- 
ing it,  replaced  the  piece  of  wood  in  its  proper 
position,  and  then  turned  the  frame  round,  to  see 
if  there  was  a picture  in  front. 

There  was  a picture — a picture  painted  in  oils, 
darkened,  but  not  much  faded,  by  age.  It  repre- 
sented the  head  of  a woman,  and  the  figure  as 
far  as  the  bosom. 

The  instant  Rosamond’s  eyes  fell  on  it  she 
shuddered,  and  hurriedly  advanced  toward  her 
husband  with  the  picture  in  her  hand. 

“Well,  what  have  you  found  now?”  he  in- 
quired, hearing  her  approach. 

“A  picture,”  she  answered,  faintly,  stopping 
to  look  at  it  again. 

Leonard’s  sensitive  ear  detected  a change  in 
her  voice.  ‘ ‘ Is  there  anything  that  alarms  you  in 
the  picture?”  he  asked,  half  in  jest,  half  in  earnest. 

“There  is  something  that  startles  me — some- 
thing that  seems  to  have  turned  me  cold  for  the 
moment,  hot  as  the  day  is,”  said  Rosamond. 
“Do  you  remember  the  description  the  servant- 
girl  gave  us,  on  the  night  we  arrived  here,  of  the 
ghost  of  the  north  rooms?” 


408 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“Yes,  I remember  it  perfectly.” 

“Lenny!  that  description  and  this  picture  are 
exactly  alike!  Here  is  the  curling,  light-brown 
hair.  Here  is  the  dimple  on  each  cheek.  Here 
are  the  bright  regular  teeth.  Here  is  that  leer- 
ing, wicked,  fatal  beauty  which  the  girl  tried  to 
describe,  and  did  describe,  when  she  said  it  was 
awful!” 

Leonard  smiled.  “That  vivid  fancy  of  yours, 
my  dear,  takes  strange  flights  sometimes,”  he 
said,  quietly. 

“Fancy!”  repeated  Rosamond  to  herself. 
“How  can  it  be  fancy  when  I see  the  face? 
how  can.  it  be  fancy  when  I feel — ” She 

stopped,  shuddered  again,  and,  returning  has- 
tily to  the  table,  placed  the  picture  on  it, 
face  downward.  As  she  did  so,  the  morsel  of 
folded  paper  which  she  had  removed  from  the 
back  of  the  frame  caught  her  eye. 

“There  may  be  some  account  of  the  picture  in 
this,”  she  said,  and  stretched  out  her  hand  to  it. 

It  was  getting  on  toward  noon.  The  heat 
weighed  heavier  on  the  air,  and  the  stillness  of 
all  things  was  more  intense  than  ever,  as  she 
took  up  the  paper  from  the  table. 

Fold  by  fold  she  opened  it,  and  saw  that  there 
were  written  characters  inside,  traced  in  ink  that 
had  faded  to  a light,  yellow  hue.  She  smoothed 
it  out  carefully  on  the  table — then  took  it  up 
again  and  looked  at  the  first  line  of  the  writing. 

The  first  line  contained  only  three  words — 
words  which  told  her  that  the  paper  with  the 
writing  on  it  was  not  a description  of  the  picture, 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


409 


but  a letter — words  which  made  her  start  and 
change  color  the  moment  her  eye  fell  upon  them. 
Without  attempting  to  read  any  further,  she 
hastily  turned  over  the  leaf  to  find  out  the  place 
where  the  writing  ended. 

It  ended  at  the  bottom  of  the  third  page;  but 
there  was  a break  in  the  lines,  near  the  foot  of 
the  second  page,  and  in  that  break  there  were 
two  names  signed.  She  looked  at  the  uppermost 
of  the  two — started  again — and  turned  back  in- 
stantly to  the  first  page. 

Line  by  line,  and  word  by  word,  she  read 
through  the  writing;  her  natural  complexion 
fading  out  gradually  the  while,  and  a dull, 
equal  whiteness  overspreading  all  her  face  in 
its  stead.  When  she  had  come  to  the  end  of 
the  third  page,  the  hand  in  which  she  held  the 
letter  dropped  to  her  side,  and  she  turned  her 
head  slowly  toward  Leonard.  In  that  position 
she  stood  — no  tears  moistening  her  eyes,  no 
change  passing  over  her  features,  no  word  escap- 
ing her  lips,  no  movement  varying  the  position 
of  her  limbs — in  that  position  she  stood,  with  the 
fatal  letter  crumpled  up  in  her  cold  fingers,  look- 
ing steadfastly,  speechlessly,  breathlessly  at  her 
blind  husband. 

He  was  still  sitting  as  she  had  seen  him  a few 
minutes  before,  with  his  legs  crossed,  his  hands 
clasped  together  in  front  of  them,  and  his  head 
turned  expectantly  in  the  direction  in  which  he 
had  last  heard  the  sound  of  his  wife’s  voice. 
But  in  a few  moments  the  intonse  stillness  in  the 
room  forced  itself  upon  his  attention.  He  changed 


410 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLTNS. 


his  position — listened  for  a little,  turning  his  head 
uneasily  from  side  to  side,  and  then  called  to  his 
wife. 

6 ‘Rosamond!” 

At  the  sound  of  his  voice  her  lips  moved,  and 
her  fingers  closed  faster  on  the  paper  that  they 
held;  but  she  neither  stepped  forward  nor  spoke. 

“Rosamond!” 

Her  lips  moved  again — faint  traces  of  expres- 
sion began  to  pass  shadow-like  over  the  blank 
whiteness  of  her  face — she  advanced  one  step, 
hesitated,  looked  at  the  letter,  and  stopped. 

Hearing  no  answer,  he  rose,  surprised  and 
uneasy.  Moving  his  poor,  helpless,  wandering 
hands  to  and  fro  before  him  in  the  air,  he 
walked  forward  a few  paces,  straight  out  from 
the  wall  against  which  he  had  been  sitting.  A 
chair,  which  his  hands  were  not  held  low  enough 
to  touch,  stood  in  his  way ; and,  as  he  still  ad- 
vanced, he  struck  his  knee  sharply  against  it. 

A cry  burst  from  Rosamond’s  lips,  as  if  the 
pain  of  the  blow  had  passed,  at  the  instant  of 
its  infliction,  from  her  husband  to  herself.  She 
was  by  his  side  in  a moment.  “You  are  not 
hurt,  Lenny?”  she  said,  faintly. 

“No,  no.”  He  tried  to  press  his  hand  on  the 
place  where  he  had  struck  himself,  but  she  knelt 
down  quickly,  and  put  her  own  hand  there  in- 
stead, nestling  her  head  against  him,  while  she 
was  on  her  knees,  in  a strangely  hesitating  timid 
way.  He  lightly  laid  the  hand  which  she  had 
intercepted  on  her  shoulder.  The  moment  it 
touched  her,  her  eyes  began  to  soften ; the  tears 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


411 


rose  in  them,  and  fell  slowly  one  by  one  down 
her  cheeks. 

“I  thought  you  had  left  me,”  he  said.  “There 
was  such  a silence  that  I fancied  you  had  gone 
out  of  the  room.” 

“ Will  you  come  out  of  it  with  me  now?”  Her 
strength  seemed  to  fail  her  while  she  asked  the 
question;  her  head  drooped  on  her  breast,  and 
she  let  the  letter  fall  on  the  floor  at  her  side. 

“Are  you  tired  already,  Rosamond?  Your 
voice  sounds  as  if  you  were.” 

“I  want  to  leave  the  room,”  she  said,  still  in 
the  same  low,  faint,  constrained  tone.  “Is  your 
knee  easier,  dear?  Can  you  walk  now?” 

“Certainly.  There  is  nothing  in  the  world  the 
matter  with  my  knee.  If  you  are  tired,  Rosa- 
mond— as  I know  you  are,  though  you  may  not 
confess  it — the  sooner  we  leave  the  room  the 
better.” 

She  appeared  not  to  hear  the  last  words  he 
said.  Her  fingers  were  working  feverishly  about 
her  neck  and  bosom;  two  bright  red  spots  were 
beginning  to  burn  in  her  pale  cheeks;  her  eyes 
were  fixed  vacantly  on  the  letter  at  her  side ; her 
hands  wavered  about  it  before  she  picked  it  up. 
For  a few  seconds  she  waited  on  her  knees,  look- 
ing at  it  intently,  with  her  head  turned  away 
from  her  husband — then  rose  and  walked  to  the 
fireplace.  Among  the  dust,  ashes,  and  other 
rubbish  at  the  back  of  the  grate  were  scattered 
some  old  torn  pieces  of  paper.  They  caught  her 
eye  and  held  it  fixed  on  them.  She  looked  and 
looked,  slowly  bending  dowm  nearer  and  nearer 


4tlZ  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

to  the  grate.  For  one  moment  she  held  the  let- 
ter out  over  the  rubbish  in  both  hands — the  next 
she  drew  back  shuddering  violently,  and  turned 
round  so  as  to  face  her  husband  again.  At  the 
sight  of  him  a faint  inarticulate  exclamation, 
half  sigh,  half  sob,  burst  from  her.  “Oh,  no, 
no !”  she  whispered  to  herself,  clasping  her  hands 
together  fervently,  and  looking  at  him  with  fond, 
mournful  eyes.  “Never,  never,  Lenny — come 
of  it  what  may!” 

“Were  you  speaking  to  me,  Rosamond?” 
“Yes,  love.  I was  saying — ” She  paused, 
and,  with  trembling  fingers,  folded  up  the  paper 
again,  exactly  in  the  form  in  which  she  had 
found  it. 

“Where  are  you?”  he  asked.  “Your  voice 
sounds  aw'ay  from  me  at  the  other  end  of  the 
room  again.  Where  are  you?” 

She  ran  to  him,  flushed  and  trembling  and 
tearful,  took  him  by  the  arm,  and,  without  an 
instant  of  hesitation,  without  the  faintest  sign 
of  irresolution  in  her  face,  placed  the  folded  paper 
boldly  in  his  hand.  “Keep  that,  Lenny,”  she 
s.,id,  turning  deadly  pale,  but  still  not  losing  her 
firmness.  “Keep  that,  and  ask  me  to  read  it  to 
you  as  soon  as  we  are  out  of  the  Myrtle  Room.” 
“What  is  it?”  he  asked. 

“The  last  thing  I have  found,  love,”  she  re- 
plied, looking  at  him  earnestly,  with  a deep  sigh 
of  relief. 

“Is  it  of  any  importance ?V 
Instead  of  answering,  she  suddenly  caught 
him  to  her  bosom,  clung  to  him  with  all  the 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


413 


fervor  of  her  impulsive  nature,  and  breathless!}7 
and  passionately  covered  his  face  with  kisses. 

“Gently!  gently!”  said  Leonard,  laughing. 
“You  take  away  my  breath.” 

She  drew  back,  and  stood  looking  at  him  in 
silence,  with  a hand  laid  on  each  of  his  shoulders. 
“Oh,  my  angel!”  she  murmured,  tenderly.  “I 
would  give  all  I have  in  the  world  if  I could  only 
know  how  much  you  love  me!” 

“Surely,”  he  returned,  still  laughing — “Sure- 
ly, Rosamond,  you  ought  to  know  by  this  time!” 
“I  shall  know  soon.”  She  spoke  those  words 
in  tones  so  quiet  and  low  that  they  were  barely 
audible.  Interpreting  the  change  in  her  voice 
as  a fresh  indication  of  fatigue,  Leonard  invited 
her  to  lead  him  away  by  holding  out  his  hand. 
She  took  it  in  silence,  and  guided  him  slowly  to 
the  door. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  TELLING  OF  THE  SECRET. 

On  their  way  back  to  the  inhabited  side  of 
the  house,  Rosamond  made  no  further  reference 
to  the  subject  of  the  folded  paper  which  she  had 
placed  in  her  husband’s  hands. 

All  her  attention,  while  they  were  returning 
to  the  west  front,  seemed  to  be  absorbed  in  the 
one  act  of  jealously  watching  every  inch  of 
ground  that  Leonard  walked  over,  to  make  sure 
that  it  was  safe  and  smooth  before  she  suffered 


414 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


him  to  set  his  foot  on  it.  Careful  and  consider- 
ate as  she  had  always  been,  from  the  first  day  of 
their  married  life,  whenever  she  led  him  from 
one  place  to  another,  she  was  now  unduly,  al- 
most absurdly  anxious  to  preserve  him  from  the 
remotest  possibility  of  an  accident.  Finding 
that  he  was  the  nearest  to  the  outside  of  the  open 
landing  when  they  left  the  Myrtle  Room,  she  in- 
sisted on  changing  places,  so  that  he  might  be 
nearest  to  the  wall.  While  they  were  descend- 
ing the  stairs,  she  stopped  him  in  the  middle,  to 
inquire  if  he  felt  any  pain  in  the  knee  which  he 
had  struck  against  the  chair.  At  the  last  step 
she  brought  him  to  a stand-still  again,  while  she 
moved  away  the  torn  and  tangled  remains  of 
an  old  mat,  for  fear  one  of  his  feet  should  catch 
in  it.  Walking  across  the  north  hall,  she  en- 
treated that  he  would  take  her  arm  and  lean 
heavily  upon  her,  because  she  felt  sure  that  his 
knee  was  not  quite  free  from  stiffness  yet.  Even 
at  the  short  flight  of  stairs  which  connected  the 
entrance  to  the  hall  with  the  passages  leading  to 
the  west  side  of  the  house,  she  twice  stopped  him 
on  the  way  down,  to  place  his  foot  on  the  sound 
parts  of  the  steps,  which  she  represented  as  dam 
gerously  worn  away  in  more  places  than  one* 
He  laughed  good-humoredly  at  her  excessive 
anxiety  to  save  him  from  all  danger  of  stum- 
bling, and  asked  if  there  was  any  likelihood, 
with  their  numerous  stoppages,  of  getting  back 
to  the  west  side  of  the  house  in  time  for  lunch. 
She  was  not  ready,  as  usual,  with  her  retort;  his 
laugh  found  no  pleasant  echo  in  hers;  she  only 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


415 


answered  that  it  was  impossible  to  be  too  anx- 
ious about  him;  and  then  went  on  in  silence  till 
they  reached  the  door  of  the  housekeeper's  room. 

Leaving  him  for  a moment  outside,  she  went 
in  to  give  the  keys  back  again  to  Mrs.  Pentreath. 

“Dear  me,  ma’am!”  exclaimed  the  house- 
keeper, “you  look  quite  overcome  by  the  heat 
of  the  day,  and  the  close  air  of  those  old  rooms. 
Can  I get  you  a glass  of  water,  or  may  I give 
you  my  bottle  of  salts?” 

Rosamond  declined  both  offers. 

“May  I be  allowed  to  ask,  ma’am,  if  anything 
has  been  found  this  time  in  the  north  rooms?” 
inquired  Mrs.  Pentreath,  hanging  up  the  bunch 
of  keys. 

“Only  some  old  papers,”  replied  Rosamond, 
turning  away. 

“I  beg  pardon  again,  ma’am,”  pursued  the 
housekeeper;  “but,  in  case  any  of  the  gentry  of 
the  neighborhood  should  call  to-day?” 

“We  are  engaged.  No  matter  who  it  may  be? 
we  are  both  engaged.”  Answering  briefly  in 
these  terms,  Rosamond  left  Mrs.  Pentreath  and 
rejoined  her  husband. 

With  the  same  excess  of  attention  and  care 
which  she  had  shown  on  the  way  to  the  house- 
keeper’s room,  she  now  led  him  up  the  west  stair- 
case. The  library  door  happening  to  stand  open, 
they  passed  through  it  on  their  way  to  the  draw- 
ing-room, which  was  the  larger  and  cooler  apart- 
ment of  the  two.  Having  guided  Leonard  to  a 
seat,  Rosamond  returned  to  the  library,  and  took 
from  the  table  a tray  containing  a bottle  of  water 


416 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


and  a tumbler,  which  she  had  noticed  when  she 
passed  through. 

“I  may  feel  faint  as  well  as  frightened,”  she 
said  quickly  to  herself,  turning  round  with  the 
tray  in  her  hand  to  return  to  the  drawing-room. 

After  she  had  put  the  water  down  on  a table 
in  a corner,  she  noiselessly  locked  the  door  lead- 
ing into  the  library,  then  the  door  leading  into 
the  passage.  Leonard,  hearing  her  moving 
about,  advised  her  to  keep  quiet  on  the  sofa. 
She  patted  him  gently  on  the  cheek,  and  was 
about  to  make  some  suitable  answer,  when  she 
accidentally  beheld  her  face  reflected  in  the  look- 
ing-glass under  which  he  was  sitting.  The  sight 
of  her  own  white  cheeks  and  startled  eyes  sus- 
pended the  words  on  her  lips.  She  hastened 
away  to  the  window,  to  catch  any  breath  of  air 
that  might  be  wafted  toward  her  from  the  sea. 

The  heat-mist  still  hid  the  horizon.  Nearer, 
the  oily,  colorless  surface  of  the  water  was  just 
visible,  heaving  slowly,  from  time  to  time,  in 
one  vast  monotonous  wave  that  rolled  itself  out 
smoothly  and  endlessly  till  it  was  lost  in  the 
white  obscurity  of  the  mist.  Close  on  the  shore 
the  noisy  surf  was  hushed.  No  sound  came 
from  the  beach  except  at  long,  wearily  long  in- 
tervals, when  a quick  thump,  and  a still  splash, 
just  audible  and  no  more,  announced  the  fall  of 
one  tiny,  mimic  wave  upon  the  parching  sand. 
On  the  terrace  in  front  of  the  house,  the  change- 
less hum  of  summer  insects  was  all  that  told  of 
life  and  movement.  Not  a human  figure  was  to 
be  seen  anywhere  on  the  shore;  no  sign  or  a sail 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


417 


loomed  shadowy  through  tho  heat  at  sea;  no 
breath  of  air  waved  the  light  tendrils  of  the 
creepers  that  twined  up  the  house-wall,  or  re- 
freshed the  drooping  flowers  ranged  in  the  win- 
dows. Rosamond  turned  away  from  the  outer 
prospect,  after  a moment’s  weary  contemplation 
of  it.  As  she  looked  into  the  room  again,  her 
husband  spoke  to  her. 

“ What  precious  thing  lies  hidden  in  this  pa- 
per?” he  asked,  producing  the  letter  and  smil- 
ing as  he  opened  it.  “Surely  there  must  be 
something  besides  writing — some  inestimable 
powder,  or  some  bank-note  of  fabulous  value — 
wrapped  up  in  all  these  folds?” 

Rosamond’s  heart  sank  within  her  as  he  opened 
the  letter  and  passed  his  finger  over  the  writing 
inside,  with  a mock  expression  of  anxiety,  and  a 
light  jest  about  sharing  all  treasures  discovered 
at  Porthgenna  with  his  wife. 

“I  will  read  it  to  you  directly,  Lenny,”  she 
said,  dropping  into  the  nearest  seat,  and  lan- 
guidly pushing  her  hair  back  from  her  temples. 
“But  put  it  away  for  a few  minutes  now,  and 
let  us  talk  of  anything  else  you  like  that  does 
not  remind  us  of  the  Myrtle  Room.  1 am  very 
capricious,  am  I not,  to  be  so  suddenly  weary  of 
the  very  subject  that  I have  been  fondest  of  talk- 
ing about  for  so  many  weeks  past?  Tell  me, 
love,”  she  added,  rising  abruptly  and  going  to 
the  back  of  his  chair;  “do  I get  worse  with  my 
whims  and  fancies  and  faults? — or  am  I im- 
proved, since  the  time  when  we  were  first 
married?” 


N — Vol.  16 


418 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


He  tossed  the  letter  aside  carelessly  on  a table 
which  was  always  placed  by  the  arm  of  his  chair, 
and  shook  his  forefinger  at  her  with  a frown  of 
comic  reproof.  “Oh,  fie,  Rosamond!  are  you 
trying  to  entrap  me  into  paying  you  compli- 
ments?’ * 

The  light  tone  that  he  persisted  in  adopting 
seemed  absolutely  to  terrify  her.  She  shrank 
away  from  his  chair,  and  sat  down  again  at  a 
little  distance  from  him. 

“I  remember  I used  to  offend  you,”  she  con- 
tinued, quickly  and  confusedly.  “No,  no,  not 
to  offend — only  to  vex  you  a little — by  talking 
too  familiarly  to  the  servants.  You  might  al- 
most have  fancied,  at  first,  if  you  had  not  known 
me  so  well,  that  it  was  a habit  with  me  because 
I had  once  been  a servant  myself.  Suppose  I 
had  been  a servant — the  servant  who  had  helped 
to  nurse  you  in  your  illnesses,  the  servant  who 
led  you  about  in  your  blindness  more  carefully 
than  any  one  else — would  you  have  thought 
much,  then,  of  the  difference  between  us? 
would  you — ” 

She  stopped.  The  smile  had  vanished  from 
Leonard’s  face,  and  he  had  turned  a little  away 
from  her.  “What  is  the  use,  Rosamond,  of  sup- 
posing events  that  never  could  have  happened?” 
he  asked  rather  impatiently. 

She  went  to  the  side- table,  poured  out  some  of 
the  water  she  had  brought  from  the  library,  and 
drank  it  eagerly;  then  walked  to  the  window 
and  plucked  a few  of  the  flowers  that  were  placed 
there.  She  threw  some  of  them  away  again  the 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


419 


next  moment;  but  kept  the  rest  in  her  hand, 
thoughtfully  arranging  them  so  as  to  contrast 
their  colors  with  the  best  effect.  When  this  was 
done,  she  put  them  into  her  bosom,  looked  down 
absently  at  them,  took  them  out  again,  and,  re- 
turning to  her  husband,  placed  the  little  nosegay 
in  the  button-hole  of  his  coat. 

“Something  to  make  you  look  gay  and  bright, 
love — as  I always  wish  to  see  you,”  she  said, 
seating  herself  in  her  favorite  attitude  at  his  feet, 
and  looking  up  at  him  sadly,  with  her  arms  rest- 
ing on  his  knees. 

“What  are  you  thinking  about,  Rosamond?” 
he  asked,  after  an  interval  of  silence. 

“I  was  wondering,  Lenny,  whether  any  wo- 
man in  the  world  could  be  as  fond  of  you  as  I 
am.  I feel  almost  afraid  that  there  are  others 
who  would  ask  nothing  better  than  to  live  and 
die  for  you,  as  well  as  me.  There  is  something 
in  your  face,  in  your  voice,  in  all  your  ways — 
something  besides  the  interest  of  your  sad,  sad 
affliction — that  would  draw  any  woman’s  heart 
to  you,  I think.  If  I were  to  die — ” 

“If  you  were  to  die!”  He  started  as  he  re- 
peated the  words  after  her,  and,  leaning  forward, 
anxiously  laid  his  hand  upon  her  forehead.  “You 
are  thinking  and  talking  very  strangely  this 
morning,  Rosamond!  Are  you  not  well?” 

She  rose  on  her  knees  and  looked  closer  at  him, 
her  face  brightening  a little,  and  a faint  smile 
just  playing  round  her  lips.  “I  wonder  if  you 
will  always  be  as  anxious  about  me,  and  as  fond 
of  me,  as  you  are  now?”  she  whispered,  kissing 


420 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


his  hand  as  she  removed  it  from  her  forehead. 
He  leaned  back  again  in  the  chair,  and  told  her 
jestingly  not  to  look  too  far  into  the  future.  The 
words,  lightly  as  they  were  spoken,  struck  deep 
into  her  heart.  ‘ 4 There  are  times,  Lenny,”  she 
said,  ‘ 6 when  all  one’s  happiness  in  the  present  de- 
pends upon  one’s  certainty  of  the  future.”  She 
looked  at  the  letter,  which  her  husband  had  left 
open  on  a table  near  him,  as  she  spoke;  and, 
after  a momentary  struggle  with  herself,  took  it 
in  her  hand  to  read  it.  At  the  first  word  her 
voice  failed  her ; the  deadly  paleness  overspread 
her  face  again ; she  threw  the  letter  back  on  the 
table,  and  walked  away  to  the  other  end  of  the 
room. 

“The  future?”  asked  Leonard.  “What  fut- 
ure, Rosamond,  can  you  possibly  mean?” 

“Suppose  I meant  our  future  at  Porthgenna?” 
she  said,  moistening  her  dry  lips  with  a few  drops 
of  water.  “Shall  we  stay  here  as  long  as  we 
thought  we  should,  and  be  as  happy  as  we  have 
been  everywhere  else?  You  told  me  on  the 
journey  that  I should  find  it  dull,  and  that  I 
should  be  driven  to  try  all  sorts  of  extraordinary 
occupations  to  amuse  myself.  You  said  you  ex- 
pected that  I should  begin  with  gardening  and 
end  by  writing  a novel.  A novel!”  She  ap- 
proached her  husband  again,  and  watched  his 
face  eagerly  while  she  went  on.  “Why  not? 
More  women  write  novels  now  than  men.  What 
is  to  prevent  me  from  trying?  The  first  great 
requisite,  I suppose,  is  to  have  an  idea  of  a 
story;  and  that  I have  got.”  She  advanced  a 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


421 


few  steps  further,  reached  the  table  ou  which 
the  letter  lay,  and  placed  her  hand  on  it,  keep- 
ing her  eyes  still  fixed  intently  on  Leonard’s 
face. 

“And  what  is  your  idea,  Rosamond?”  he 
asked. 

“This,”  she  replied.  “I  mean  to  make  the 
main  interest  of  the  story  center  in  two  young 
married  people.  They  shall  be  very  fond  of 
each  other — as  fond  as  we  are,  Lenny — and  they 
shall  be  in  our  rank  of  life.  After  they  have 
been  happily  married  some  time,  and  when  they 
have  got  one  child  to  make  them  love  each  other 
more  dearly  than  ever,  a terrible  discovery  shall 
fall  upon  them  like  a thunderbolt.  The  hus- 
band shall  have  chosen  for  his  wife  a young  lady 
bearing  as  ancient  a family  name  as — ” 

“As  your  name?”  suggested  Leonard. 

“As  the  name  of  the  Treverton  family,”  she 
continued,  after  a pause,  during  which  her  hand 
had  been  restlessly  moving  the  letter  to  and  fro 
on  the  table.  “The  husband  shall  be  well-born 
— as  well-born  as  you,  Lenny — and  the  terrible 
discovery  shall  be,  that  his  wife  has  no  right  to 
the  ancient  name  that  she  bore  when  he  married 
her.” 

“I  can’t  say,  my  love,  that  I approve  of  your 
idea.  Your  story  will  decoy  the  reader  into  feel- 
ing an  interest  in  a woman  who  turns  out  to  be 
an  impostor.” 

“No!”  cried  Rosamond,  warmly.  “A  true 
woman — a woman  who  never  stooped  to  a de- 
ception— a woman  full  of  faults  and  failings,  but 


422 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS, 


a teller  of  the  truth  at  all  hazards  and  all  sacri- 
fices. Hear  me  out,  Lenny,  before  you  judge.” 
Hot  tears  rushed  into  her  eyes;  but  she  dashed 
them  away  passionately,  and  went  on.  “The 
wife  shall  grow  up  to  womanhood,  and  shall 
marry,  in  total  ignorance — mind  that! — in  total 
ignorance  of  her  real  history.  The  sudden  dis- 
closure of  the  truth  shall  overwhelm  her — she 
shall  find  herself  struck  by  a calamity  which  she 
had  no  hand  in  bringing  about.  She  shall  be 
staggered  in  her  very  reason  by  the  discovery; 
it  shall  burst  upon  her  when  she  has  no  one  but 
herself  to  depend  on;  she  shall  have  the  power 
of  keeping  it  a secret  from  her  husband  with  per- 
fect impunity;  she  shall  be  tried,  she  shall  be 
shaken  in  her  mortal  frailness,  by  one  moment 
of  fearful  temptation;  she  shall  conquer  it,  and, 
of  her  own  free  will,  she  shall  tell  her  husband 
all  that  she  knows  herself.  Now,  Lenny,  what 
do  you  call  that  woman?  an  impostor?” 

“No:  a victim.” 

“Who  goes  of  her  own  accord  to  the  sacrifice? 
and  who  is  to  be  sacrificed?” 

“I  never  said  that.” 

“What  would  you  do  with  her,  Lenny,  if  you 
were  writing  the  story?  I mean,  how  would 
you  make  her  husband  behave  to  her?  It  is  a 
question  in  which  a man’s  nature  is  concerned, 
and  a woman  is  not  competent  to  decide  it.  I 
am  perplexed  about  how  to  end  the  story.  How 
would  you  end  it,  love?”  As  she  ceased,  her 
voice  sank  sadly  to  its  gentlest  pleading  tones. 
She  came  close  to  him,  and  twined  her  fingers  in 


THE  DEAD  SECKET. 


423 


his  hair  fondly.  “How  would  you  end  it,  love?” 
she  repeated,  stooping  down  till  her  trembling 
lips  just  touched  his  forehead. 

He  moved  uneasily  in  his  chair,  and  replied — 
“I  am  not  a writer  of  novels,  Rosamond.” 

“But  how  would  you  act,  Lenny,  if  you  were 
that  husband?” 

“It  is  hard  for  me  to  say,”  he  answered.  “I 
have  not  your  vivid  imagination,  my  dear.  I 
have  no  power  of  putting  myself,  at  a moment’s 
notice,  into  a position  that  is  not  my  own,  and  of 
knowing  how  I should  act  in  it.” 

“But  suppose  your  wife  was  close  to  you — as 
close  as  I am  now?  Suppose  she  had  just  told 
you  the  dreadful  secret,  and  was  standing  before 
you— as  I am  standing  now — with  the  happiness 
of  her  whole  life  to  come  depending  on  one  kind 
word  from  your  lips?  Oh,  Lenny,  you  would 
not  let  her  drop  broken-hearted  at  ycur  feet? 
You  would  know,  let  her  birth  be  what  it  might, 
that  she  was  still  the  same  faithful  creature  who 
had  cherished  and  served  and  trusted  and  wor- 
shiped you  since  her  marriage-day,  and  who 
asked  nothing  in  return  but  to  lay  her  head  on 
your  bosom,  and  to  hear  you  say  that  you  loved 
her?  You  would  know  that  she  had  nerved  her- 
self to  tell  the  fatal  secret,  because,  in  her  loyalty 
and  love  to  her  husband,  she  would  rather  die 
forsaken  and  despised,  than  live,  deceiving  him? 
You  would  know  all  this,  and  you  would  open 
your  arms  to  the  mother  of  your  child,  to  the 
wife  of  your  first  love,  though  she  was  the  lowli- 
est of  all  lowly  born  women  in  the  estimation  of 


4:U 


WORKS  OE  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


the  world?  Oh,  you  would,  Lenny,  I know  you 
would!” 

“ Rosamond!  how  your  hands  tremble;  how 
your  voice  alters!  You  are  agitating  yourself 
about  this  supposed  story  of  yours,  as  if  you  were 
talking  of  real  events.” 

“You  would  take  her  to  your  heart,  Lenny? 
You  would  open  your  arms  to  her  without  an 
instant  of  unworthy  doubt?” 

“Hush!  hush!  I hope  I should.” 

“Hope?  only  hope?  Oh,  think  again,  love, 
think  again;  and  say  you  know  you  should!” 
“Must  I,  Rosamond?  Then  I do  say  it.” 

She  drew  back  as  the  words  passed  his  lips, 
and  took  the  letter  from  the  table. 

“You  have  not  yet  asked  me,  Lenny,  to  read 
the  letter  that  I found  in  the  Myrtle  Room.  I 
offer  to  read  it  now  of  my  own  accord.” 

She  trembled  a little  as  she  spoke  those  few 
decisive  words,  but  her  utterance  of  them  was 
clear  and  steady,  as  if  her  consciousness  of  being 
now  irrevocably  pledged  to  make  the  disclosure 
had  strengthened  her  at  last  to  dare  all  hazards 
and  end  all  suspense. 

Her  husband  turned  toward  the  place  from 
which  the  sound  of  her  voice  had  reached  him, 
with  a mixed  expression  of  perplexity  and  sur- 
prise in  his  face.  “You  pass  so  suddenly  from 
one  subject  to  another,”  he  said,  “that  I hardly 
know  how  to  followyou.  What  in  the  world, Rosa- 
mond, takes  you,  at  one  jump,  from  a romantic 
argument  about  a situation  in  a novel,  to  the 
plain,  practical  business  of  reading  an  old  letter?” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


425 


“Perhaps  there  is  a closer  connection  between 
the  two  than  you  suspect,”  she  answered. 

“A  closer  connection?  What  connection?  I 
don’t  understand.” 

“The  letter  will  explain.” 

“Why  the  letter?  Why  should  you  not  ex- 
plain?” 

She  stole  one  anxious  look  at  his  face,  and  saw 
that  a sense  of  something  serious  to  come  was 
now  overshadowing  his  mind  for  the  first  time. 

“Rosamond!”  he  exclaimed,  “there  is  some 
mystery — ” 

“There  are  no  mysteries  between  us  two,”  she 
interposed  quickly.  “There  never  have  been 
any,  love;  there  never  shall  be.”  She  moved 
a little  nearer  to  him  to  take  her  old  favorite 
place  on  his  knee,  then  checked  herself  and  drew 
back  again  to  the  table.  Warning  tears  in  her 
eyes  bade  her  distrust  her  own  firmness,  and 
read  the  letter  where  she  could  not  feel  the  beat- 
ing of  his  heart. 

“Did  I tell  you,”  she  resumed,  after  waiting 
an  instant  to  compose  herself,  “where  I found 
the  folded  piece  of  paper  which  I put  into  your 
hand  in  the  Myrtle  Room?” 

“No,”  he  replied,  “I  think  not.” 

“I  found  it  at  the  back  of  the  frame  of  that 
picture — the  picture  of  the  ghostly  woman  with 
the  wicked  face.  I opened  it  immediately,  and 
saw  that  it  was  a letter.  The  address  inside,  the 
first  line  under  it,  and  one  of  the  two  signatures 
which  it  contained,  were  in  a handwriting  that 
I knew.” 


426 


WORKS'  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“ Whose!” 

“The  handwriting  of  the  late  Mrs.  Treverton.” 
“Of  your  mother?” 

“Of  the  late  Mrs.  Treverton.” 

“Gracious  God,  Rosamond!  why  do  you  speak 
of  her  in  that  way?” 

“Let  me  read,  and  you  will  know.  You  have 
seen,  with  my  eyes,  what  the  Myrtle  Room  is 
like;  you  have  seen,  with  my  eyes,  every  object 
which  the  search  through  it  brought  to  light; 
you  must  now  see,  with  my  eyes,  what  this  letter 
contains.  It  is  the  Secret  of  the  Myrtle  Room.” 
She  bent  close  over  the  faint,  faded  writing, 
and  read  these  words: 

“To  my  Husband— 

“We  have  parted,  Arthur,  forever,  and  I have 
not  had  the  courage  to  imbitter  our  farewell  by 
confessing  that  I have  deceived  you — cruelly  and 
basely  deceived  you.  But  a few  minutes  since, 
you  were  weeping  by  my  bedside  and  speaking 
of  our  child.  My  wronged,  my  beloved  husband, 
the  little  daughter  of  your  heart  is  not  yours,  is 
not  mine.  She  is  a love-child,  whom  I have  im- 
posed on  you  for  mine.  Her  father  was  a miner 
at  Porthgenna;  her  mother  is  my  mind,  Sarah 
Leeson.” 

Rosamond  paused,  but  never  raised  her  head 
from  the  letter.  She  heard  her  husband  lay  his 
hand  suddenly  on  the  table;  she  heard  him  start 
to  his  feet;  she  heard  him  draw  his  breath  heavi- 
ly in  one  quick  gasp;  she  heard  him  whisper  to 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


437 


himself  the  instant  after— “A  love-child !”  With 
a fearful,  painful  distinctness  she  heard  those 
three  words.  The  tone  in  which  he  whispered 
them  turned  her  cold.  But  she  never  moved, 
for  there  was  more  to  read ; and  while  more  re- 
mained, if  her  life  had  depended  on  it,  she  could 
not  have  looked  up. 

In  a moment  more  she  went  on,  and  read  these 
lines  next : 

“I  have  many  heavy  sins  to  answer  for,  but 
this  one  sin  you  must  pardon,  Arthur,  for  I com- 
mitted it  through  fondness  for  you.  That  fond- 
ness told  me  a secret  which  you  sought  to  hide 
from  me.  That  fondness  told  me  that  your  bar- 
ren wife  would  never  make  your  heart  all  her 
own  until  she  had  borne  you  a child;  and  your 
lips  proved  it  true.  Your  first  words,  when  you 
came  back  from  sea,  and  when  the  infant  was 
placed  in  your  arms,  were — 4 1 have  never  loved 
you,  Rosamond,  as  I love  you  now.’  If  you 
had  not  said  that,  I should  never  have  kept  my 
guilty  secret. 

"I  can  add  no  more,  for  death  is  very  near  me. 
How  the  fraud  was  committed,  and  what  my 
other  motives  were,  I must  leave  you  to  discover 
from  the  mother  of  the  child,  who  writes  this 
under  my  dictation,  and  who  is  charged  to  give 
it  to  you  when  I am  no  more.  You  will  be  mer- 
ciful to  the  poor  little  creature  who  bears  my 
name.  Be  merciful  also  to  her  unhappy  parent: 
she  is  only  guilty  of  too  blindly  obeying  me.  If 
there  is  anything  that  mitigates  the  bitterness  of 


428 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


my  remorse,  it  is  the  remembrance  that  my  act 
of  deceit  saved  the  most  faithful  and  the  most 
affectionate  of  women  from  shame  that  she  had 
not  deserved.  Remember  me  forgivingly,  Ar- 
thur— words  may  tell  how  I have  sinned  against 
you;  no  words  can  tell  how  I have  loved  you!” 

She  had  struggled  on  thus  far,  and  had  reached 
the  last  line  on  the  second  page  of  the  letter,  when 
she  paused  again,  and  then  tried  to  read  the  first 
of  the  two  signatures — “Rosamond  Treverton.” 
She  faintly  repeated  two  syllables  of  that  famil- 
iar Christian  name — the  name  that  was  on  her 
husband’s  lips  every  hour  cf  the  day ! — and  strove 
to  articulate  the  third,  but  her  voice  failed  her. 
All  the  sacred  household  memories  which  that 
ruthless  letter  had  profaned  forever  seemed  to 
tear  themselves  away  from  her  heart  at  the  same 
moment.  With  a low,  moaning  cry  she  dropped 
her  arms  on  the  table,  and  laid  her  head  down 
on  them,  and  hid  her  face. 

She  heard  nothing,  she  was  conscious  of  noth- 
ing, until  she  felt  a touch  on  her  shoulder — a 
light  touch  from  a hand  that  trembled.  Every 
pulse  in  her  body  bounded  in  answer  to  it,  and 
she  looked  up. 

Her  husband  had  guided  himself  near  to  her 
by  the  table.  The  tears  were  glistening  in  his 
dim,  sightless  eyes.  As  she  rose  and  touched 
him,  his  arms  opened,  and  closed  fast  around 
her. 

“My  own  Rosamond!”  he  said,  “come  tome 
and  be  comforted!” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


429 


BOOK  VI 


CHAPTER  I. 

UNCLE  JOSEPH. 

The  day  and  the  night  had  passed,  and  the  new 
morning  had  come,  before  the  husband  and  wife 
could  trust  themselves  to  speak  calmly  of  the 
Secret,  and  to  face  resignedly  the  duties  and  the 
sacrifices  which  the  discovery  of  it  imposed  on 
them. 

Leonard’s  first  question  referred  to  those  lines 
in  the  letter  which  Rosamond  had  informed  him 
were  in  a handwriting  that  she  knew.  Finding 
that  he  was  at  a loss  to  understand  what  means 
she  could  have  of  forming  an  opinion  on  this 
point,  she  explained  that,  after  Captain  Trever- 
ton’s  death,  many  letters  had  naturally  fallen 
into  her  possession  which  had  been  written  by 
Mrs.  Treverton  to  her  husband.  They  treated 
of  ordinary  domestic  subjects,  and  she  had  read 
them  often  enough  to  become  thoroughly  ae 
quainted  with  the  peculiarities  of  Mrs.  Trever- 
ton’s  handwriting.  It  was  remarkably  large, 
firm,  and  masculine  in  character;  and  the  ad- 
dress, the  line  under  it,  and  the  uppermost  of 
the  two  signatures  in  the  letter  which  had  been 
found  in  the  Myrtle  Room,  exactly  resembled 
it  in  every  particular. 


430 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


The  next  question  related  to  the  body  of  the  let- 
ter. The  writing  of  this,  of  the  second  signature 
(“Sarah  Leesom”),  and  of  the  additional  lines  on 
the  third  page,  also  signed  by  Sarah  Leeson,  pro- 
claimed itself  in  each  case  to  be  the  production  of 
the  same  person.  While  stating  that  fact  to  her 
husband,  Rosamond  did  not  forget  to  explain  to 
him  that,  while  reading  the  letter  on  the  previ- 
ous day,  her  strength  and  courage  had  failed  her 
before  she  got  to  the  end  of  it,  She  added  that 
the  postscript  which  she  had  thus  omitted  to  read 
was  of  importance,  because  it  mentioned  the  cir- 
cumstances under  which  the  Secret  had  been  hid- 
den; and  begged  that  he  would  listen  while  she 
made  him  acquainted  with  its  contents  without 
any  further  delay. 

Sitting  as  close  to  his  side,  now,  as  if  they  were 
enjoying  their  first  honeymoon  days  over  again, 
she  read  these  last  lines — the  lines  which  her 
mother  had  written  sixteen  years  before,  on  the 
morning  when  she  fled  from  Porthgenna  Tower: 

“If  this  paper  should  ever  be  found  (which  I 
pray  with  my  whole  heart  it  never  may  be),  I 
wish  to  say  that  I have  come  to  the  resolution 
of  hiding  it,  because  I dare  not  show  the  writing 
that  it  contains  to  my  master,  to  whom  it  is  ad- 
dressed. In  doing  what  I now  propose  to  do, 
though  I am  acting  against  my  mistress’s  last 
wishes,  I am  not  breaking  the  solemn  engage- 
ment which  she  obliged  me  to  make  before  her 
on  her  death-bed.  That  engagement  forbids  me 
to  destroy  this  letter,  or  to  take  it  away  with  me 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


431 


if  I lea  ve  the  house.  I shall  do  neither — my 
purpose  is  to  conceal  it  in  the  place,  of  all  others, 
where  I think  there  is  least  chance  of  its  ever  be^ 
ing  found  again.  Any  hardship  or  misfortune 
which  may  follow  as  a consequence  of  this  de- 
ceitful proceeding  on  my  part  will  fall  on  myself  . 
Others,  I believe,  in  my  conscience,  will  be  the 
happier  for  the  hiding  of  the  dreadful  Secret 
which  this  letter  contains. 5 9 

“There  can  be  no  doubt,  now,”  said  Leonard, 
when  his  wife  had  read  to  the  end;  “Mrs, 
Jazeph,  Sarah  Leeson,  and  the  servant  who  dis- 
appeared from  Porthgenna  Tower,  are  one  and 
the  same  person.” 

“Poor  creature!”  said  Rosamond,  sighing  as 
she  put  down  the  letter.  “We  know  now  why 
she  warned  me  so  anxiously  not  to  go  into  the 
Myrtle  Room.  Who  can  say  what  she  must 
have  suffered  when  she  came  as  a stranger  to  my 
bedside?  Oh,  what  would  I not  give  if  I had 
been  less  hasty  with  her!  Ic  is  dreadful  to  re- 
member that  I spoke  to  her  as  a servant  whom  I 
expected  to  obey  me;  it  is  worse  still  to  feel  that 
I cannot,  even  no  w,  think  of  her  as  a child  should 
think  of  a mother.  How  can  I ever  tell  her  that 
I know  the  Secret?  how—”  She  paused,  with  a 
heart-sick  consciousness  of  the  slur  that  was  cast 
on  her  birth ; she  paused,  shrinking  as  she  thought 
of  the  name  that  her  husband  had  given  to  her, 
and  of  her  own  parentage,  which  the  laws  of 
society  disdained  to  recognize. 

“ Why  do  you  stop?”  asked  Leonard. 


432 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“1  was  afraid—”  she  began,  and  paused  again. 

“Afraid,”  he  said,  finishing  the  sentence  for 
her,  “that  words  of  pity  for  that  unhappy  woman 
might  wound  my  sensitive  pride  by  reminding 
me  of  the  circumstances  of  your  birth?  Rosa- 
mond! I should  be  unworthy  of  your  matchless 
truthfulness  toward  me,  if  I,  on  my  side,  did  not 
acknowledge  that  this  discovery  has  wounded  me 
as  only  a proud  man  can  be  wounded.  My  pride 
has  been  born  and  bred  in  me.  My  pride,  even 
while  I am  now  speaking  to  you,  takes  advan- 
tage of  my  first  moments  of  composure,  and  de- 
ludes me  into  doubting,  in  face  of  all  probability, 
whether  the  words  you  have  read  to  me  can,  after 
all,  be  words  of  truth.  But,  strong  as  that  in- 
born and  inbred  feeling  is — hard  as  it  may  be 
for  me  to  discipline  and  master  it  as  I ought,  and 
must  and  will — there  is  another  feeling  in  my 
heart  that  is  stronger  yet.  ” He  felt  for  her  hand, 
and  took  it  in  his;  then  added — “From  the  hour 
when  you  first  devoted  your  life  to  your  blind 
husband — from  the  hour  when  you  won  all  his 
gratitude,  as  you  had  already  won  all  his  love, 
you  took  a place  in  his  heart,  Rosamond,  from 
which  nothing,  not  even  such  a shock  as  has 
now  Assailed  us,  can  move  you ! High  as  I have 
always  held  the  worth  of  rank  in  my  estimation, 
I have  learned,  even  before  the  event  of  yester- 
day, to  hold  the  worth  of  my  wife,  let  her  parent- 
age be  what  it  may,  higher  still.” 

“Oh,  Lenny,  Lenny,  1 can’t  hear  you  praise 
me,  if  you  talk  in  the  same  breath  as  if  I had 
made  a sacrifice  in  marrying  you!  But  for  my 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


433 


blind  husband  I might  never  have  deserved 
what  you  have  just  said  of  me.  When  I first 
read  that  f :arful  letter,  I had  one  moment  of  vile, 
ungrateful  doubt  if  your  love  for  me  would  hold 
out  against  the  discovery  of  the  Secret.  I had 
one  moment  of  horrible  temptation,  that  drew 
me  away  from  you  when  1 ought  to  have  put  the 
letter  into  your  hand.  It  was  the  sight  of  you, 
waiting  for  me  to  speak  again,  so  innocent  of  all 
knowledge  of  what  happened  close  by  you,  that 
brought  me  back  to  my  senses,  and  told  me  what 
I ought  to  do.  It  was  the  sight  of  my  blind  hus- 
band that  made  me  conquer  the  temptation  to 
destroy  that  letter  in  the  first  hour  of  discovering 
it.  Oh,  if  I had  been  the  hardest-hearted  of 
women,  could  I have  ever  taken  your  hand  again 
— could  1 kiss  you,  could  1 lie  down  by  your  side, 
and  hear  you  fall  asleep,  night  after  night,  feel- 
ing that  I had  abused  your  blind  dependence  on 
me  to  serve  my  own  selfish  interests?  knowing 
that  I had  only  succeeded  in  my  deceit  because 
your  affliction  made  you  incapable  of  suspecting 
deception?  No,  no;  I can  hardly  believe  that 
the  basest  of  women  could  be  guilty  of  such  base- 
ness as  that;  and  I can  claim  nothing  more  for 
myself  than  the  credit  of  having  been  true  to  my 
trust.  You  said  yesterday,  love,  in  the  Myrtle 
Room,  that  the  one  faithful  friend  to  you  in  your 
blindness,  who  never  failed,  was  your  wife.  It 
is  reward  enough  and  consolation  enough  for  me, 
now  that  the  worst  is  over,  to  know  that  you  can 
say  so  still.” 

■‘Yes,  Rosamond,  the  worst  is  over;  but  we 


434 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


must  not  forget  that  there  may  be  hard  trials 
still  to  meet.” 

“Hard  trials,  love?  To  what  trials  do  you 
refer?” 

“Perhaps,  Rosamond,  I overrate  the  courage 
that  the  sacrifice  demands;  but,  to  me,  at  least,  it 
will  be  a hard  sacrifice  of  my  own  feelings  to 
make  strangers  partakers  in  the  knowledge  that 
we  now  possess.” 

Rosamond  looked  at  her  husband  in  astonish- 
ment. “Why  need  we  tell  the  Secret  to  any 
one?”  she  asked. 

“Assuming  that  we  can  satisfy  ourselves  of 
the  genuineness  ot  that  letter,”  he  answered, 
“we  shall  have  no  choice  but  to  tell  it  to  stran- 
gers. Y*ou  cannot  forget  the  circumstances  under 
which  your  father— under  which  Captain  Trev- 
erton — ” 

“Call  him  my  father,”  said  Rosamond,  sadly. 
“Remember  how  he  loved  me,  and  how  I loved 
him,  and  say  ‘my  father’  still.” 

“I  am  afraid  I must  say  ‘Captain  Treverton’ 
now,”  returned  Leonard,  “or  I shall  hardly  be 
able  to  explain  simply  and  plainly  what  it  is 
very  necessary  that  you  should  know.  Captain 
Treverton  died  without  leaving  a will.  His  only 
property  was  the  purchase-money  of  this  house 
and  estate;  and  you  inherited  it,  as  his  next  of 
kin — ” 

Rosamond  started  back  in  her  chair  and  clasped 
her  hands  in  dismay.  “Oh,  Lenny,”  she  said 
simply,  “I  have  thought  so  much  of  you,  since  I 
found  the  letter,  that  I never  remembered  this!” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


435 


“It  is  time  to  remember  it,  my  love.  If  you 
are  not  Captain  Treverton’s  daughter,  you  have 
no  right  to  one  farthing  of  the  fortune  that  you 
possess;  and  it  must  be  restored  at  once  to  the 
person  who  is  Captain  Treverton’s  next  of  kin — 
or,  in  other  words,  to  his  brother.5’ 

“To  that  man!”  exclaimed  Rosamond.  “To 
that  man  who  is  a stranger  to  us,  who  holds  our 
very  name  in  contempt ! Are  wo  to  be  made 
poor  that  he  may  be  made  rich? — ” 

“We  are  to  do  what  is  honorable  and  just,  at 
any  sacrifice  of  our  own  interests  and  ourselves,” 
said  Leonard,  firmly.  “I  believe,  Rosamond, 
that  my  consent,  as  your  husband,  is  necessary, 
according  to  the  law,  to  effect  this  restitution. 
If  Mr.  Andrew  Treverton  was  the  bitterest  enemy 
I had  on  earth,  and  if  the  restoring  of  this  money 
utterly  ruined  us  both  in  our  worldly  circum- 
stances, I would  give  it  back  of  my  own  accord 
to  the  last  farthing — and  so  would  you!” 

The  blood  mantled  in  his  cheeks  as  he  spoke. 
Rosamond  looked  at  him  admiringly  in  silence. 
“Who  would  have  him  less  proud,”  she  thought, 
fondly,  “when  his  pride  speaks  in  such  words  as 
those!” 

“You  understand  now,”  continued  Leonard, 
“that  we  have  duties  to  perform  which  will 
oblige  us  to  seek  help  from  others,  and  which 
will  therefore  render  it  impossible  to  keep  the 
Secret  to  ourselves?  If  we  search  all  England 
for  her,  Sarah  Leeson  must  be  found.  Our  fut- 
ure actions  depend  up:n  her  answers  to  our  in- 
quiries, upon  her  testimony  to  the  genuineness  of 


436 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


that  letter.  Although  I am  resolved  beforehand 
to  shield  myself  behind  no  technical  quibbles  and 
delays— although  I want  nothing  hut  evidence 
that  is  morally  conclusive,  however  legally  im- 
perfect it  may  be — it  is  still  impossible  to  proceed 
without  seeking  advice  immediately.  The  law- 
yer who  always  managed  Captain  Treverton’s 
affairs,  and  who  now  manages  ours,  is  the  proper 
person  to  direct  us  in  instituting  a search,  and  to 
assist  us,  if  necessary,  in  making  the  restitution.” 
“How  quietly  and  firmly  you  speak  of  it, 
Lenny!  Will  not  the  abandoning  of  my  fortune 
be  a dreadful  loss  to  us?” 

“We  must  think  of  it  as  a gain  to  our  con- 
sciences, Rosamond,  and  must  alter  our  way  of 
life  resignedly  to  suit  our  altered  means.  But 
we  need  speak  no  more  of  that  until  we  are  as- 
sured of  the  necessity  of  restoring  the  money. 
My  immediate  anxiety,  and  your  immediate 
anxiety,  must  turn  now  on  the  discovery  of 
Sarah  Leeson — no!  on  the  discovery  of  your 
mother;  I must  learn  to  call  her  by  that  name, 
or  I shall  not  learn  to  pity  and  forgive  her.” 
Rosamond  nestled  closer  to  her  husband’s  side. 
“Every  word  you  say,  love,  does  my  heart  good,” 
she  whispered,  laying  her  head  on  his  shoulder. 
“You  will  help  me  and  strengthen  me,  when 
the  time  comes,  to  meet  my  mother  as  I ought? 
Oh,  how  pale  and  worn  and  weary  she  was  when 
she  stood  by  my  bedside,  and  looked  at  me  and 
my  child!  Will  it  be  long  before  we  find  her? 
Is  she  far  away  from  us,  I wonder?  or  nearer, 
much  nearer  than  we  think?” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


437 


Before  Leonard  could  answer,  he  was  inter- 
rupted by  a knock  at  the  door,  and  Rosamond 
was  surprised  by  the  appearance  of  the  maid- 
servant. Betsey  was  flushed,  excited,  and  out 
of  breath;  but  she  contrived  to  deliver  intelli- 
gibly a brief  message  from  Mr.  Munder,  the 
steward,  requesting  permission  to  speak  to  Mr. 
Frankland,  or  to  Mrs.  Frankland,  on  business  of 
importance. 

“What  is  it?  What  does  he  want?”  asked 
Rosamond. 

“I  think,  ma’am,  he  wants  to  know  whether 
he  had  better  send  for  the  constable  or  not,”  an- 
swered Betsey. 

‘ ‘ Send  for  the  constable !”  repeated  Rosamond. 
“Are  there  thieves  in  the  house  in  broad  day- 
light?” ’ 

“Mr.  Munder  says  he  don’t  know  but  what  it 
may  be  worse  than  thieves,”  replied  Betsey. 
“It’s  the  foreigner  again,  if  you  please,  ma’am. 
He  come  up  and  rung  at  the  door  as  bold  as 
brass,  and  asked  if  he  could  see  Mrs.  Frank- 
land.” 

“ The  foreigner !”  exclaimed  Rosamond,  laying 
her  hand  eagerly  on  her  husband’s  arm. 

“Yes,  ma’am,”  said  Betsey.  “Him  as  come 
here  to  go  over  the  house  along  with  the  lady — ” 

Rosamond,  with  characteristic  impulsiveness, 
started  to  her  feet.  “Let  me  go  down!”  she 
began. 

“Wait,”  interposed  Leonard,  catching  her  by 
the  hand.  “There  is  not  the  least  need  for  you 
to  go  downstairs. — Show  the  foreigner  up  here,” 


438 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


he  continued,  addressing  himself  to  Betsey,  “and 
tell  Mr.  Munder  that  we  will  take  the  manage- 
ment of  this  business  into  our  own  hands.” 

Rosamond  sat  down  again  by  her  husband’s 
side.  “This  is  a very  strange  accident,”  she 
said,  in  a low,  serious  tone.  “It  must  be  some- 
thing more  than  mere  chance  that  puts  the  clew 
into  our  hands,  at  the  moment  when  we  least 
expected  to  find  it.” 

The  door  opened  for  the  second  time,  and  there 
appeared,  modestly,  on  the  threshold,  a little  old 
man,  with  rosy  cheeks  and  long  white  hair.  A 
small  leather  case  was  slung  by  a strap  at  his 
side,  and  the  stem  of  a pipe  peeped  out  of  the 
breast-pocket  of  his  coat.  He  advanced  one  step 
into  the  room,  stopped,  raised  both  his  hands, 
with  his  felt  hat  crumpled  up  in  them,  to  his 
heart,  and  made  five  fantastic  bows  in  quick 
succession — two  to  Mrs.  Frankland,  two  to  her 
husband,  and  one  to  Mrs.  Frankland  again,  as 
an  act  of  separate  and  special  homage  to  the  lady. 
Never  had  Rosamond  seen  a more  complete  em- 
bodiment in  human  form  of  perfect  innocence 
and  perfect  harmlessness  than  the  foreigner  who 
was  described  in  the  housekeeper’s  letter  as  an 
audacious  vagabond,  and  who  was  dreaded  by 
Mr.  Munder  as  something  worse  than  a thief! 

“Madam  and  good  sir,”  said  the  old  man,  ad- 
vancing a little  nearer  at  Mrs.  Frankland’s  in- 
vitation, “I  ask  your  pardon  for  intruding  my- 
self. My  name  is  Joseph  Buschmann.  I live 
in  the  town  of  Truro,  where  I work  in  cabinets 
and  tea-caddies,  and  other  shining  woods.  I am 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


439 


also,  if  you  please,  the  same  little  foreign  man 
who  was  scolded  by  the  big  major-domo  when  I 
came  to  see  the  house.  All  that  I ask  of  your 
kindness  is,  that  you  will  let  me  say  for  my 
errand  here  and  for  myself,  and  for  another  per- 
son who  is  very  near  to  my  love — one  little  word. 
I will  be  but  few  minutes,  madam  and  good  sir, 
and  then  I will  go  my  ways  again,  with  my  best 
wishes  and  my  best  thanks.” 

“Pray  consider,  Mr.  Buschmann,  that  our 
time  is  your  time,”  said  Leonard.  “We  have 
no  engagement  whatever  which  need  oblige  you 
to  shorten  your  visit.  I must  tell  you  before- 
hand, in  order  to  prevent  any  embarrassment  on 
either  side,  that  I have  the  misfortune  to  be 
blind.  I can  promise  you,  however,  my  best 
attention  as  far  as  listening  goes.  Rosamond, 
is  Mr,  Buschmann  seated?” 

Mr.  Buschmann  was  still  standing  near  the 
door,  and  was  expressing  sympathy  by  bowing 
to  Mr.  Frankland  again,  and  crumpling  his  felt 
hat  once  more  over  his  heart. 

“Pray  come  nearer  and  sit  down,”  said  Rosa- 
mond. “And  don’t  imagine  for  one  moment 
that  any  opinion  of  the  steward’s  has  the  least 
influence  on  us,  or  that  we  feel  it  at  all  neces- 
sary for  you  to  apologize  for  what  took  place  the 
last  time  you  came  to  this  house.  We  have  an 
interest — a very  great  interest,”  she  added,  with 
her  usual  hearty  frankness,  “in  hearing  anything 
that  you  have  to  tell  us.  You  are  the  person  of 
all  others  whom  we  are,  just  at  this  time—” 
She  stopped,  feeling  her  foot  touched  by  her 


440 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


husband’s,  and  rightly  interpreting  the  action 
as  a warning  not  to  speak  too  unrestrainedly  to 
the  visitor  before  he  had  explained  his  object  in 
coming  to  the  house. 

Looking  very  much  pleased,  and  a little  sur- 
prised, also,  when  he  heard  Rosamond’s  last 
words,  Uncle  Joseph  drew  a chair  near  to  the 
table  by  which  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland  were 
sitting,  crumpled  his  felt  hat  up  smaller  than 
ever,  and  put  it  in  one  of  his  side  pockets,  drew 
from  the  other  a little  packet  of  letters,  placed 
them  on  his  knees  as  he  sat  down,  patted  them 
gently  with  both  hands,  and  entered  on  his  ex- 
planation in  these  terms: 

“ Madam  and  good  sir,”  he  began,  “ before  I 
can  say  comfortably  my  little  word,  I must,  with 
your  leave,  travel  backward  to  the  last  time 
when  I came  to  this  house  in  company  with 
my  niece.” 

“Your  niece!”  exclaimed  Rosamond  and 
Leonard,  both  speaking  together. 

“My  niece,  Sarah,”  said  Uncle  Joseph,  “the 
only  child  of  my  sister  Agatha.  It  is  for  the 
love  of  Sarah,  if  you  please,  that  I am  here  now. 
She  is  the  one  last  morsel  of  my  flesh  and  blood 
that  is  left  to  me  in  the  world.  The  rest,  they 
are  all  gone!  My  wife,  my  little  Joseph,  my 
brother  Max,  my  sister  Agatha  and  the  husband 
she  married,  the  good  and  noble  Englishman, 
Leeson — they  are  all,  all  gone!” 

“Leeson,”  said  Rosamond,  pressing  her  hus- 
band’s hand  significantly  under  the  table.  “Your 
niece’s  name  is  Sarah  Leeson?” 


THE  HE  A H SECRET. 


441 


Uncle  Joseph  sighed  and  shook  his  head.  “One 
day,”  he  said,  “of  all  the  days  in  the  year  the 
evilmost  for  Sarah,  she  changed  that  name0  Of 
the  man  she  married — who  is  dead  now,  madam 
— it  is  little  or  nothing  that  I know  but  this:  His 
name  was  Jazeph,  and  he  used  her  ill,  for  which 
I think  him  the  First  Scoundrel!  Yes,”  ex- 
claimed Uncle  Joseph,  with  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  anger  and  bitterness  which  his  nat- 
ure was  capable  of  making,  and  with  an  idea 
that  he  was  using  one  of  the  strongest  superla- 
tives in  the  language — “Yes!  if  he  was  to  come 
to  life  again  at  this  very  moment  of  time,  I 
would  say  it  of  him  to  his  face—Englishman 
Jazbph,  you  are  the  First  Scoundrel!” 

Rosamond  pressed  her  husband’s  hand  for  the 
second  time.  If  their  own  convictions  had  not 
already  identified  Mrs.  Jazeph  with  Sarah  Lee- 
son,  the  old  man’s  last  words  must  have  amply 
sufficed  to  assure  them  that  both  names  had  been 
borne  by  the  same  person. 

“Well,  then,  I shall  now  travel  backward  to 
the  time  when  I was  here  with  Sarah,  my  niece,” 
resumed  Uncle  Joseph.  “I  must,  if  you  please, 
speak  the  truth  in  this  business,  or,  now  that  I 
am  already  backward  where  I want  to  be,  I shall 
stick  fast  in  my  place,  and  get  on  no  more  for 
the  rest  cf  my  life.  Sir  and  good  madam,  will 
you  have  the  great  kindness  to  forgive  me  and 
Sarah,  my  niece,  if  I confess  that  it  was  not  to 
see  the  house  that  we  came  here  and  rang  at  the 
bell,  and  gave  deal  of  trouble,  and  wasted  much 
breath  of  the  big  major-domos  with  the  scolding 


442  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

that  we  got.  It  was  only  to  do  one  curious  little 
thing  that  we  came  together  to  this  place — or, 
no,  it  was  all  about  a secret  of  Sarah’s,  which 
is  still  as  black  and  dark  to  me  as  the  middle  of 
the  blackest  and  darkest  night  that  ever  was  in 
the  world — and  as  I nothing  knew  about  it,  ex- 
cept that  there  was  no  harm  in  it  to  anybody  or 
anything,  and  that  Sarah  was  determined  to  go, 
and  that  I could  not  let  her  go  by  herself ; as  also 
for  the  good  reason  that  she  told  me  she  had  the 
best  right  of  anybody  to  take  the  letter  and  to 
hide  it  again,  seeing  that  she  was  afraid  of  its 
being  found  if  longer  in  that  room  she  left  it, 
which  was  the  room  where  she  had  hidden  it  be- 
fore— why,  so  it  happened  that  I — no,  that  she  — 
no,  no,  that  I — Ach  Gott!”  cried  Uncle  Joseph, 
striking  his  forehead  in  despair,  and  relieving 
himself  by  an  invocation  in  his  own  language. 
44 I am  lost  in  my  own  muddlement;  and  where- 
abouts the  right  place  is,  and  how  I am  to  get 
myself  back  into  it,  as  I am  a living  sinner,  is 
more  than  I know!” 

4 ‘There  is  not  the  least  need  to  go  back  on  our 
account,”  said  Rosamond,  forgetting  all  caution 
and  self-restraint  in  her  anxiety  to  restore  the  old 
man’s  confidence  and  composure.  “Pray  don’t 
try  to  repeat  your  explanations,  We  know  al- 
ready— ” 

44 We  will  suppose,”  said  Leonard,  interposing 
abruptly  before  his  wife  could  add  another  word, 

4 4 that  we  know  already  everything  you  can  de- 
sire to  tell  us  in  relation  to  your  niece’s  secret, 
and  to  your  motives  for  desiring  to  see  the  house.” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


443 


“You  will  suppose  that!”  exclaimed  Uncle 
Joseph,  looking  greatly  relieved.  “Ah!  thank 
you,  sir,  and  you,  good  madam,  a thousand 
times  for  helping  me  out  of  my  own  muddle- 
menfc  with  a ‘Suppose.’  I am  all  over  confu- 
sion from  my  tops  to  my  toes;  but  I can  go  on 
now,  I think,  and  lose  myself  no  more.  So! 
Let  us  say  it  in  this  way:  I and  Sarah,  my 
niece,  are  in  the  house — that  is  the  first  ‘Sup- 
pose.’ I and  Sarah,  my  niece,  are  out  of  the 
house — -that  is  the  second  ‘ Suppose.  ’ Good ! now 
we  go  on  once  more.  On  my  way  back  to  my 
own  home  at  Truro,  I am  frightened  for  Sarah, 
because  of  the  faint  she  fell  into  on  your  stairs 
here,  and  because  of  a look  in  her  face  that  it 
makes  me  heavy  at  my  heart  to  see.  Also,  I am 
sorry  for  her  sake,  because  she  has  not  done  that 
one  curious  little  thing  which  she  came  into  the 
house  to  do.  I fret  about  these  same  matters, 
but  I console  myself  too;  and  my  comfort  is  that 
Sarah  will  stop  with  me  in  my  house  at  Truro, 
and  that  I shall  make  her  happy  and  well  again, 
as  soon  as  we  are  settled  in  our  life  together. 
Judge,  then,  sir,  what  a blow  falls  on  me  when 
I hear  that  she  will  not  make  her  home  where 
I make  mine.  Judge  you,  also,  good  madam, 
what  my  surprise  must  be,  when  I ask  for  her 
reason,  and  she  tells  me  she  must  leave  Uncle 
Joseph,  because  she  is  afraid  of  being  found  out 
by  you.”  He  stopped,  and  looked  anxiously  at 
Rosamond’s  face,  saw  it  sadden  and  turn  away 
from  him  after  he  had  spoken  his  last  words. 
“Are  you  sorry,  madam,  for  Sarah,  my  niece?  do 


4:4:4  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLT, INS. 

you  pity  her?”  he  asked,  with  a little  hesitation 
and  trembling  in  his  voice. 

“I  pity  her  with  my  whole  heart,”  said  Rosa- 
mond, warmly. 

“And  with  my  whole  heart,  for  that  pity  I 
thank  you!”  rejoined  Uncle  Joseph.  “Ah, 
madam,  your  kindness  gives  me  the  courage 
to  go  on,  and  to  tell  you  that  we  parted  from 
each  other  on  the  day  of  our  getting  back  to 
Truro ! When  she  came  to  see  me  this  time,  it 
was  years  and  years,  long  and  lonely  and  very 
many,  since  we  two  had  met.  I was  afraid  that 
many  more  would  pass  again  and  I tried  to  make 
her  stop  with  me  to  the  very  last.  But  she  had 
still  the  same  fear  to  drive  her  away — the  fear 
of  being  found  and  put  to  the  question  by  you. 
So,  with  the  tears  in  her  eyes  (and  in  mine),  and 
the  grief  at  her  heart  (and  at  mine),  she  went 
away  to  hide  herself  in  the  empty  bigness  of  the 
great  city,  London,  which  swallows  up  all  peo- 
ple and  all  things  that  pour  into  it,  and  which 
has  now  swallowed  up  Sarah,  my  niece,  with 
the  rest.  4 My  child,  you  will  write  sometimes 
to  Uncle  Joseph,’  I said,  and  she  answered  me: 
4 1 will  write  often.’  It  is  three  weeks  now  since 
that  time,  and  here,  on  my  knee,  are  four  letters 
she  has  written  to  me.  I shall  ask  your  leave 
to  put  them  down  open  before  you,  because  they 
will  help  me  to  get  on  further  yet  with  what  I 
must  say,  and  because  I see  in  your  face,  madam, 
that  you  are  indeed  sorry  for  Sarah,  my  niece, 
from  your  heart.” 

He  untied  the  packet  of  letters,  opened  them, 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


445 


kissed  them  one  by  one,  and  put  them  down  in 
a row  on  the  table,  smoothing  them  out  carefully 
with  his  hand,  and  taking  great  pains  to  arrange 
them  all  in  a perfectly  straight  line.  A glance 
at  the  first  of  the  little  series  showed  Rosamond 
that  the  handwriting  in  it  was  the  same  as  the 
handwriting  in  the  body  of  the  letter  which  had 
been  found  in  the  Myrtle  Room. 

“There  is  not  much  to  read,”  said  Uncle 
Joseph.  “But  if  you  will  look  through  them 
first,  madam,  I can  tell  you  after  all  the  reason 
for  showing  them  that  I have.” 

The  old  man  was  right.  There  was  very  little 
to  read  in  the  letters,  and  they  grew  progressively 
shorter  as  they  became  more  recent  in  date.  All 
four  were  written  in  the  formal,  conventionally 
correct  style  of  a person  taking  up  the  pen  with 
a fear  of  making  mistakes  in  spelling  and  gram- 
mar, and  were  equally  destitute  of  any  personal 
particulars  relative  to  the  writer;  all  four  anx- 
iously entreated  that  Uncle  Joseph  would  not  be 
uneasy,  inquired  after  his  health,  and  expressed 
gratitude  and  love  for  him  as  warmly  as  their 
timid  restraints  of  style  would  permit;  all  four 
contained,  these  two  questions  relating  to  Rosa- 
mond— First,  had  Mrs.  Frankland  arrived  yet 
at  Porthgenna  Tower?  Second,  if  she  had  ar- 
rived, what  had  Uncle  Joseph  heard  about  her? 
And,  finally,  all  four  gave  the  same  instructions 
f or  addressing  an  answer — “Please  direct  to  me, 
‘S.  J.,  Post-office,  Smith  Street,  London’  ” — fol- 
lowed by  the  same  apology,  “Excuse  my  not  giv- 
ing my  address,  in  case  of  accidents ; for  even  in 


446 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS, 


London  I am  still  afraid  of  being  followed  and 
found  out.  I send  every  morning  for  letters;  so 
1 am  sure  to  get  your  answer.” 

“I  told  you,  madam,”  said  the  old  man,  when 
Rosamond  raised  her  head  from  the  letters,  “that 
I was  frightened  and  sorry  for  Sarah  when  she 
left  me.  Now  see,  if  you  please,  why  I got  more 
frightened  and  more  sorry  yet,  when  I have  all 
the  four  letters  that  she  writes  to  me.  They  be- 
gin here,  with  the  first,  at  my  left  hand;  and 
they  grow  shorter,  and  shorter,  and  shorter,  as 
they  get  nearer  to  my  right,  till  the  last  is  but 
eight  little  lines.  Again,  see,  if  you  please.  The 
writing  of  the  first  letter,  here,  at  my  left  hand, 
is  very  fine — I mean  it  is  very  fine  to  me,  be- 
cause I love  Sarah,  and  because  I write  very 
badly  myself;  but  it  is  not  so  good  in  the  sec- 
ond letter — it  shakes  a little,  it  blots  a little,  it 
crooks  itself  a little  in  the  last  lines.  In  the 
third  it  is  worse — more  shake,  more  blot,  more 
crook.  In  the  fourth,  where  there  is  least  to  do, 
there  is  still  more  shake,  still  more  blot,  still 
more  crook,  than  in  all  the  other  three  put  to- 
gether. I see  this;  I remember  that  she  was 
weak  and  worn  and  weary  when  she  left  me, 
and  I say  to  myself,  4 She  is  ill,  though  she  will 
not  tell  it,  for  the  writing  betrays  her!’  ” 

Rosamond  looked  down  again  at  the  letters, 
and  followed  the  significant  changes  for  the 
worse  in  the  handwriting,  line  by  line,  as  the 
old  man  pointed  them  out. 

“Isay  to  myself  that,”  he  continued;  “I  wait, 
and  think  a little ; and  I hear  my  own  heart  whis- 


THK  DEAD  SECRET. 


44? 


per  to  me,  ‘Go  you,  Uncle  Joseph,  to  London, 
and,  while  there  is  yet  time,  bring  her  back  to 
be  cured  and  comforted  and  made  happy  in  your 
own  home!’  After  that  1 wait,  and  think  a lit- 
tle again  — not  about  leaving  my  business;  I 
would  leave  it  forever  sooner  than  Sarah  should 
come  to  harm — but  about  what  I am  to  do  to 
get  her  to  come  back.  That  thought  makes  me 
look  at  the  letters  again;  the  letters  show  me 
always  the  same  questions  about  Mistress  Frank- 
land;  I see  it  plainly  as  my  own  hand  before 
me  that  I shall  never  get  Sarah,  my  niece,  back, 
unless  I can  make  easy  her  mind  about  those 
questions  of  Mistress  Frankland’s  that  she  dreads 
as  if  there  was  death  to  her  in  every  one  of  them. 
I seo  it!  it  makes  my  pipe  go  out;  it  drives  me 
up  from  my  chair ; it  puts  my  hat  on  my  head ; it 
brings  me  here,  where  I have  once  intruded  my- 
self already,  and  where  I have  no  right,  I know, 
to  intrude  myself  again;  it  makes  me  beg  and 
pray  now,  of  your  compassion  for  my  niece  and 
of  your  goodness  for  me,  that  you  will  not  deny 
me  the  means  of  bringing  Sarah  back.  If  I may 
only  say  to  her,  I have  seen  Mistress  Frankland, 
and  she  has  told  me  with  her  own  lips  that  she 
will  ask  none  of  those  questions  that  you  fear 
so  much — if  I may  only  say  that,  Sarah  will 
come  back  with  me,  and  I shall  thank  you 
every  day  of  my  life  for  making  me  a happy 
man!” 

The  simple  eloquence  of  his  words,  the  inno- 
cent earnestness  of  his  manner,  touched  Rosa- 
mond to  the  heart.  “I  will  do  anything,  I will 


448 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


promise  anything,”  she  answered,  eagerly,  “to 
help  you  to  bring  her  back!  If  she  will  only  let 
me  see  her,  I promise  not  to  say  one  word  that 
she  would  not  wish  me  to  say ; I promise  not  to 
ask  one  question — no,  not  one — that  it  will  pain 
her  to  answer.  Oh,  what  comforting  message 
can  I send  besides?  what  can  I say — ?”  She 
stopped  confusedly,  feeling  her  husband’s  foot 
touching  hers  again. 

“Ah,  say  no  more!  say  no  more!”  cried  Uncle 
Joseph,  tying  up  his  little  packet  of  letters,  with 
his  eyes  sparkling  and  his  ruddy  face  all  in  a 
glow.  “Enough  said  to  bring  Sarah  back! 
enough  said  to  make  me  grateful  for  all  my 
life!  Oh,  I am  so  happy,  so  happy,  so  happy 
—my  skin  is  too  small  to  hold  me!”  He  tossed 
up  the  packet  of  letters  into  the  air,  caught  it, 
kissed  it,  and  put  it  back  again  in  his  pocket,  all 
in  an  instant. 

“You  are  not  going?”  said  Rosamond. 
“Surely  you  are  not  going  yet?” 

“It  is  my  loss  to  go  away  from  here,  which 
I must  put  up  with,  because  it  is  also  my  gain 
to  get  sooner  to  Sarah,”  replied  Uncle  Joseph. 
“For  that  reason  only,  I shall  ask  your  pardon 
if  I take  my  leave  with  my  heart  full  of  thanks, 
and  go  my  ways  home  again.” 

“When  do  you  propose  to  start  for  London, 
Mr.  Buschmann?”  inquired  Leonard. 

“To-morrow,  in  the  morning  early,  sir,”  re- 
plied Uncle  Joseph.  “I  shall  finish  the  work 
that  I must  do  to-night,  and  shall  leave  the  rest 
to  Samuel  (who  is  my  very  good  friend,  and  my 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


449 


shopman  too),  and  shall  then  go  to  Sarah  by  the 
first  coach.’ ’ 

“May  I ask  for  your  niece’s  address  in  Lon- 
don,  in  case  we  wish  to  write  to  you?” 

“She  gives  me  no  address,  sir,  but  the  post- 
office;  for  even  at  the  great  distance  of  London, 
the  same  fear  that  she  had  all  the  way  from  this 
house  still  sticks  to  her.  But  here  is  the  place 
where  I shall  get  my  own  bed,”  continued  the 
old  man,  producing  a small  shop  card.  “It  is 
the  house  of  a countryman  of  my  own,  a fine 
baker  of  buns,  sir,  and  a very  good  man  indeed.” 

“Have  you  thought  of  any  plan  for  finding  out 
your  niece’s  address?”  inquired  Rosamond,  copy- 
ing the  direction  on  the  card  while  she  spoke. 

“Ah,  yes — for  I am  always  quick  at  making 
my  plans,”  said  Uncle  Joseph.  “I  shall  present 
myself  to  the  master  of  the  post,  and  to  him  I 
shall  say  just  this  and  no  more — ‘ Good-morning, 
sir.  I am  the  man  who  writes  the  letters  to  S. 
J.  She  is  my  niece,  if  you  please;  and  all  that 
I want  to  know  is — Where  does  she  live?’  There 
is  something  like  a plan,  I think?  Aha!”  He 
spread  out  both  his  hands  interrogatively,  and 
looked  at  Mrs.  Frankland  with  a self-satisfied 
smile. 

“I  am  afraid,”  said  Rosamond,  partly  amused, 
partly  touched  by  his  simplicity,  “that  the  people 
at  the  post-office  are  not  at  all  likely  to  be  trusted 
with  the  address.  I think  you  would  do  better 
to  take  a letter  with  you,  directed  to  ‘S.  J.’;  to 
deliver  it  in  the  morning  when  letters  are  received 
from  the  country ; to  wait  near  the  door,  and  then 
O— VOL.  16 


450  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

to  follow  the  person  who  is  sent  by  your  niece  (as 
she  tells  you  herself)  to  ask  for  letters  for  S.  J.” 
“You  think  that  is  better?”  said  Uncle  Joseph, 
secretly  convinced  that  his  own  idea  was  unques- 
tionably the  most  ingenious  of  the  two.  “Good ! 
The  least  little  word  that  you  say  to  me,  madam, 
is  a command  that  I follow  with  all  my  heart.” 
He  took  the  crumpled  felt  hat  out  of  his  pocket, 
and  advanced  to  say  farewell,  when  Mr.  Frank- 
land  spoke  to  him  again. 

“If  you  find  your  niece  well,  and  willing  to 
travel,”  said  Leonard,  “you  will  bring  her  back 
to  Truro  at  once?  And  you  will  let  us  know 
when  you  are  both  at  home  again?” 

“At  once,  sir,”  said  Uncle  Joseph.  “To  both 
these  questions,  I say,  At  once.” 

“If  a week  from  this  time  passes,”  continued 
Leonard,  “and  we  hear  nothing  from  you,  we 
must  conclude,  then,  either  that  some  unfore- 
seen obstacle  stands  in  the  way  of  your  return, 
or  that  your  fears  on  your  niece’s  account  have 
been  but  too  well-founded,  and  that  she  is  not 
able  to  travel?” 

“Yes,  sir;  so  let  it  be.  But  I hope  you  will 
hear  from  me  before  the  week  is  out.” 

“Oh,  so  do  I ! most  earnestly,  most  anxiously!” 
said  Rosamond.  “You  remember  my  message?” 
“1  have  got  it  here,  every  word  of  it,”  said 
Uncle  Joseph,  touching  his  heart.  He  raised 
the  hand  which  Rosamond  held  out  to  him  to  his 
lips.  “I  shall  try  to  thank  you  better  when  I 
have  come  back,”  he  said.  “For  all  your  kind- 
ness to  me  and  to  my  niece,  God  bless  you  both, 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


451 


and  keep  you  happy,  till  we  meet  again.”  With 
these  words,  he  hastened  to  the  door,  waved  his 
hand  gayly,  with  the  old  crumpled  hat  in  it,  and 
went  out. 

“Dear,  simple,  warm-hearted  old  man!”  said 
Rosamond,  as  the  door  closed.  “'I  wanted  to 
tell  him  everything,  Lenny.  Why  did  you  stop 
me?” 

“My  love,  it  is  that  very  simplicity  which  you 
admire,  and  which  I admire,  too,  that  makes  me 
cautious.  At  the  first  sound  of  his  voice  I felt 
as  warmly  toward  him  as  you  do;  but  the  more 
I heard  him  talk  the  more  convinced  I became 
that  it  would  be  rash  to  trust  him,  at  first,  for 
fear  of  his  disclosing  too  abruptly  to  your  mother 
that  we  know  her  secret,  Our  chance  of  win- 
ning her  confidence  and  obtaining  an  interview 
with  her  depends,  I can  see,  upon  our  own  tact 
in  dealing  with  her  exaggerated  suspicions  and 
her  nervous  fears.  That  good  old  man,  with  the 
best  and  kindest  intentions  in  the  world,  might 
ruin  everything.  He  will  have  done  all  that  we 
can  hope  for,  and  all  that  we  can  wish,  if  he 
only  succeeds  in  bringing  her  back  to  Truro,” 

“But  if  he  fails? — if  anything  happens? — if 
she  is  really  ill?” 

“Let  us  wait  till  the  week  is  over,  Rosamond. 
It  will  be  time  enough  then  to  decide  what  we 
shall  do  next.” 


452 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


CHAPTER  II. 

WAITING  AND  HOPING. 

The  week  of  expectation  passed,  and  no  tid- 
ings from  Uncle  Joseph  reached  Porthgenna 
Tower. 

On  the  eighth  day  Mr.  Frankland  sent  a mes- 
senger to  Truro,  with  orders  to  find  out  the  cabi- 
net-maker’s shop  kept  by  Mr.  Buschmann,  and 
to  inquire  of  the  person  left  in  charge  there 
whether  he  had  received  any  news  from  his  mas- 
ter. The  messenger  returned  in  the  afternoon, 
and  brought  word  that  Mr.  Buschmann  had  writ- 
ten one  short  note  to  his  shopman  since  his  de- 
parture, announcing  that  he  had  arrived  safely 
toward  nightfall  in  London;  that  he  had  met 
with  a hospitable  welcome  from  his  countryman, 
the  German  baker;  and  that  he  had  discovered 
his  niece’s  address,  but  had  been  prevented  from 
seeing  her  by  an  obstacle  which  he  hoped  would 
be  removed  at  his  next  visit.  Since  the  delivery 
of  that  note,  no  further  communication  had  been 
received  from  him,  and  nothing  therefore  was 
known  of  the  period  at  which  he  might  be  ex- 
pected to  return. 

The  one  fragment  of  intelligence  thus  obtained 
was  not  of  a nature  to  relieve  the  depression  of 
spirits  which  the  doubt  and  suspense  of  the  past 
week  had  produced  in  Mrs.  Frankland.  Her 
husband  endeavored  to  combat  the  oppression  of 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


453 


mind  from  which  she  was  suffering,  by  remind- 
ing her  that  the  ominous  silence  of  Uncle  Joseph 
might  be  just  as  probably  occasioned  by  his 
niece’s  unwillingness  as  by  her  inability  to  re- 
turn with  him  to  Truro.  Remembering  the  ob- 
stacle  at  which  the  old  man’s  letter  hinted,  and 
taking  also  into  consideration  her  excessive  sen- 
sitiveness and  her  unreasoning  timidity,  he  de- 
clared it  to  be  quite  possible  that  Mrs.  Frank- 
land’s  message,  instead  of  re-assuring  her,  might 
only  inspire  her  with  fresh  apprehensions,  and 
might  consequently  strengthen  her  resolution  to 
keep  herself  out  of  reach  of  all  communications 
from  Porthgenna  Tower. 

Rosamond  listened  patiently  while  this  view 
of  the  case  was  placed  before  her,  and  acknowl- 
edged that  the  reasonableness  of  it  was  beyond 
dispute;  but  her  readiness  in  admitting  that  her 
husband  might  be  right  and  that  she  might  be 
wrong  was  accompanied  by  no  change  for  the 
better  in  the  condition  of  her  spirits.  The  inter- 
pretation which  the  old  man  had  placed  upon  the 
alteration  for  the  worse  in  Mrs.  Jazeph’s  hand- 
writing had  produced  a vivid  impression  on  her 
mind,  which  had  been  strengthened  by  her  own 
recollection  of  her  mother’s  pale,  worn  face  when 
they  met  as  strangers  at  "West  Winston.  Rea- 
son, therefore,  as  convincingly  as  he  might,  Mr. 
Frankland  was  unable  to  shake  his  wife’s  con- 
viction that  the  obstacle  mentioned  in  Uncle 
Joseph’s  letter,  and  the  silence  which  he  had 
maintained  since,  were  referable  alike  to  the  ill- 
ness of  his  niece. 


454 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


The  return  of  the  messenger  from  Truro  sug- 
gested, besides  this  topic  of  discussion,  another 
question  of  much  greater  importance.  After 
having  waited  one  day  beyond  the  week  that 
had  been  appointed,  what  was  the  proper  course 
of  action  for  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland  now  to 
adopt,  in  the  absence  of  any  information  from 
London  or  from  Truro  to  decide  their  future 
proceedings? 

Leonard’s  first  idea  was  to  write  immediately 
to  Uncle  Joseph,  at  the  address  which  he  had 
given  on  the  occasion  of  his  visit  to  Porthgenna 
Tower.  When  this  project  was  communicated 
to  Rosamond,  she  opposed  it,  on  the  ground  that 
the  necessary  delay  before  the  answer  to  the  let- 
ter could  arrive  would  involve  a serious  waste  of 
time,  when  it  might,  for  aught  they  knew  to  the 
contrary,  be  of  the  last  importance  to  them  not  to 
risk  the  loss  of  a single  day.  If  illness  prevented 
Mrs.  Jazepli  from  traveling,  it  would  be  neces- 
sary to  see  her  at  once,  because  that  illness  might 
increase.  If  she  were  only  suspicious  of  their 
motives,  it  was  equally  important  to  open  per- 
sonal communications  with  her  before  she  could 
find  an  opportunity  of  raising  some  fresh  obsta- 
cle, and  of  concealing  herself  again  in  some  place 
of  refuge  which  Uncle  Joseph  himself  might  not 
be  able  to  trace. 

The  truth  of  these  conclusions  was  obvious, 
but  Leonard  hesitated  to  adopt  them,  because 
they  involved  the  necessity  of  a journey  to  Lon- 
don. If  he  went  there  without  his  wife,  his 
blindness  placed  him  at  the  mercy  of  strangers 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


455 


and  servants,  in  conducting  investigations  of  the 
most  delicate  and  most  private  nature.  If  Rosa- 
mond accompanied  him,  it  would  be  necessary 
to  risk  all  kinds  of  delays  and  inconveniences  by 
taking  the  child  with  them  on  a long  and  weari- 
some journey  of  more  than  two  hundred  and 
fifty  miles. 

Rosamond  met  both  these  difficulties  with  her 
usual  directness  and  decision.  The  idea  of  her 
husband  traveling  anywhere,  under  any  circum- 
stances, in  his  helpless,  dependent  state,  without 
having  her  to  attend  on  him,  she  dismissed  at 
once  as  too-  preposterous  for  consideration.  The 
second  objection,  of  subjecting  the  child  to  the 
chances  and  fatigues  of  a long  journey,  she  met 
by  proposing  that  they  should  travel  to  Exeter  at 
their  own  time  and  in  their  own  conveyance, 
and  that  they  should  afterward  insure  plenty  of 
comfort  and  plenty  of  room  by  taking  a carriage 
to  themselves  when  they  reached  the  railroad  at 
Exeter.  After  thus  smoothing  away  the  diffi- 
culties which  seemed  to  set  themselves  in  oppo- 
sition to  the  journey,  she  again  reverted  to  the 
absolute  necessity  of  undertaking  it.  She  re- 
minded Leonard  of  the  serious  interest  that  they 
both  had  in  immediately  obtaining  Mrs.  Jazeph’s 
testimony  to  the  genuineness  of  the  letter  which 
had  been  found  in  the  Myrtle  Room,  as  well  as 
in  ascertaining  all  the  details  of  the  extraordi- 
nary fraud  which  had  been  practiced  by  Mrs. 
Treverton  on  her  husband.  She  pleaded  also  her 
own  natural  anxiety  to  make  all  the  atonement 
in  her  power  for  the  pain  she  must  have  uncon- 


456 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


sciously  inflicted,  in  the  bedroom  at  West  Win- 
ston, on  the  person  of  all  others  whose  failings 
and  sorrows  she  was  most  bound  to  respect ; and 
having  thus  stated  the  motives  which  urged  her 
husband  and  herself  to  lose  no  time  in  communi- 
cating personally  with  Mrs.  Jazeph,  she  again 
drew  the  inevitable  conclusion  that  there  was  no 
alternative,  in  the  position  in  which  they  were 
now  placed,  but  to  start  forthwith  on  the  jour- 
ney to  London. 

A little  further  consideration  satisfied  Leonard 
that  the  emergency  was  of  such  a nature  as  to 
render  all  attempts  to  meet  it  by  half-measures 
impossible.  He  felt  that  his  own  convictions 
agreed  with  his  wife’s;  and  he  resolved  accord- 
ingly to  act  at  once,  without  further  indecision 
or  further  delay.  Before  the  evening  was  over, 
the  servants  at  Porthgenna  were  amazed  by  re- 
ceiving directions  to  pack  the  trunks  for  travel- 
ing, and  to  order  horses  at  the  post-town  for  an 
early  hour  the  next  morning. 

On  the  first  day  of  the  journey,  the  travelers 
started  as  soon  as  the  carriage  was  ready,  rested 
on  the  road  toward  noon,  and  remained  for  the 
night  at  Liskeard.  On  the  second  day  they  ar- 
rived at  Exeter,  and  slept  there.  On  the  third 
day  they  reached  London  by  the  railway,  be- 
tween  six  and  seven  o’clock  in  the  evening. 

When  they  were  comfortably  settled  for  the 
night  at  their  hotel,  and  when  an  hour’s  rest  and 
quiet  had  enabled  them  to  recover  a little  after  the 
fatigues  of  the  journey,  Rosamond  wrote  two 
notes  under  her  husband’s  direction.  The  first 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


457 


was  addressed  to  Mr.  Buschmann : it  simply  in- 
formed him  of  their  arrival,  and  of  their  earnest 
desire  to  see  him  at  the  hotel  as  early  as  possible 
the  next  morning,  and  it  concluded  by  cautioning 
him  to  wait  until  he  had  seen  them  before  he 
announced  their  presence  in  London  to  his  niece. 

The  second  note  was  addressed  to  the  family 
solicitor,  Mr.  Nixon — the  same  gentleman  who, 
more  than  a year  since,  had  written,  at  Mrs. 
Frankland’s  request,  the  letter  which  informed 
Andrew  Treverton  of  his  brother’s  decease,  and 
of  the  circumstances  under  which  the  Captain 
had  died.  All  that  Rosamond  now  wrote,  in  her 
husband’s  name  and  her  own,  to  ask  of  Mr. 
Nixon,  was  that  he  would  endeavor  to  call  at 
their  hotel  on  his  way  to  business  the  next  morn- 
ing, to  give  his  opinion  on  a private  matter  of 
great  importance,  which  had  obliged  them  to 
undertake  the  journey  from  Porthgenna  to  Lon- 
don. This  note,  and  the  note  to  Uncle  Joseph, 
were  sent  to  their  respective  addresses  by  a mes- 
senger on  the  evening  when  they  were  writften. 

The  first  visitor  who  arrived  the  next  morning 
was  the  solicitor — a clear-headed,  fluent,  polite 
old  gentleman,  who  had  known  Captain  Trever- 
ton and  his  father  before  him.  He  came  to  the 
hotel  fully  expecting  to  be  consulted  on  some 
difficulties  connected  with  the  Porthgenna  estate, 
which  the  local  agent  was  perhaps  unable  to  set- 
tle, and  which  might  be  of  too  confused  and  in- 
tricate a nature  to  be  easily  expressed  in  writing. 
When  he  heard  what  the  emergency  really  was, 
and  when  the  letter  that  had  been  found  in  the 


458 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Myrtle  Room  was  placed  in  his  hands,  it  is  not 
too  much  to  say  that,  for  the  first  time  in  the 
course  of  a long  life  and  a varied  practice  among 
all  sorts  and  conditions  of  clients,  sheer  aston- 
ishment utterly  paralyzed  Mr.  Nixon’s  faculties, 
and  bereft  him  for  some  moments  of  the  power 
of  uttering  a single  word. 

When,  however,  Mr.  Frankland  proceeded 
from  making  the  disclosure  to  announcing  his 
resolution  to  give  up  the  purchase-money  of 
Porthgenna  Tower,  if  the  genuineness  of  the  let- 
ter could  be  proved  to  his  own  satisfaction,  the 
old  lawyer  recovered  the  use  of  his  tongue  im- 
mediately, and  protested  against  his  client’s  in- 
tention with  the  sincere  warmth  of  a man  who 
thoroughly  understood  the  advantage  of  being 
rich,  and  who  knew  what  it  was  to  gain  and  to 
lose  a fortune  of  forty  thousand  pounds. 

Leonard  listened  with  patient  attention  while 
Mr.  Nixon  argued  from  his  professional  point  of 
view  against  regarding  the  letter,  taken  by  it- 
self, as  a genuine  document,  and  against  ac- 
cepting Mrs.  Jazeph’s  evidence,  taken  with  it, 
as  decisive  on  the  subject  of  Mrs.  Frankland’s 
real  parentage.  He  expatiated  on  the  improba- 
bility of  Mrs.  Treverton’s  alleged  fraud  upon 
her  husband  having  been  committed  without 
other  persons  besides  her  maid  and  herself  being 
in  the  secret.  He  declared  it  to  be  in  accordance 
with  all  received  experience  of  human  nature 
that  one  or  more  of  those  other  persons  must 
have  spoken  of  the  secret  either  from  malice  or 
from  want  of  caution,  and  that  the  consequent 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


459 


exposure  of  the  truth  must,  in  the  course  of  so 
long  a period  as  twenty-two  years,  have  come  to 
the  knowledge  of  some  among  the  many  people 
in  the  West  of  England,  as  well  as  in  London, 
who  knew  the  Treverton  family  personally  or  by 
reputation.  From  this  objection  he  passed  to 
another,  which  admitted  the  possible  genuine- 
ness of  the  letter  as  a written  document;  but 
which  pleaded  the  probability  of  its  having  been 
produced  under  the  influence  of  some  mental  de- 
lusion on  Mrs.  Treverton’s  part,  which  her  maid 
might  have  had  an  interest  in  humoring  at  the 
time,  though  she  might  have  hesitated,  after  her 
mistress’s  death,  at  risking  the  possible  conse- 
quences of  attempting  to  profit  by  the  imposture. 
Having  stated  this  theory,  as  one  which  not  only 
explained  the  writing  of  the  letter,  but  the  hid- 
ing of  it  also,  Mr.  Nixon  further  observed,  in 
reference  to  Mrs.  J azeph,  that  any  evidence  she 
might  give  was  of  little  or  no  value  in  a legal 
point  of  view,  from  the  difficulty — or,  he  might 
say,  the  impossibility— of  satisfactorily  identify- 
ing the  infant  mentioned  in  the  letter  with  the 
lady  whom  he  had  now  the  honor  of  addressing 
as  Mrs.  Frankland,  and  whom  no  unsubstanti- 
ated document  in  existence  should  induce  him 
to  believe  to  be  any  other  than  the  daughter  of 
his  old  friend  and  client,  Captain  Treverton. 

Having  heard  the  lawyer’s  objections  to  the 
end,  Leonard  admitted  their  ingenuity,  but  ac- 
knowledged at  the  same  time  that  they  had  pro- 
duced no  alteration  in  his  impression  on  the  sub- 
ject of  the  letter,  or  in  his  convictions  as  to  the 


460 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


course  of  duty  which  he  felt  bound  to  follow. 
He  would  wait,  Tie  said,  for  Mrs.  Jazeph’s  testi- 
mony before  he  acted  decisively;  but  if  that 
testimony  were  of  such  a nature,  and  were 
given  in  such  a manner,  as  to  satisfy  him  that 
his  wife  had  no  moral  right  to  the  fortune  that 
she  possessed,  he  would  restore  it  at  once  to  the 
person  who  had — Mr.  Andrew  Treverton. 

Finding  that  no  fresh  arguments  or  sugges- 
tions could  shake  Mr.  Frankland’s  resolution, 
and  that  no  separate  appeal  to  Rosamond  had 
the  slightest  effect  in  stimulating  her  to  use  her 
influence  for  the  purpose  of  inducing  her  hus- 
band to  alter  his  determination ; and  feeling  con- 
vinced, moreover,  from  all  that  he  heard,  that 
Mr.  Frankland  would,  if  he  was  opposed  by 
many  more  objections,  either  employ  another 
professional  adviser,  or  risk  committing  some 
fatal  legal  error  by  acting  for  .himself  in  the 
matter  of  restoring  the  money,  Mr.  Nixon  at  last 
consented,  under  protest,  to  give  his  client  what 
help  he  needed  in  case  it  became  necessary  to 
hold  communication  with  Andrew  Treverton. 
He  listened  with  polite  resignation  to  Leonard’s 
brief  statement  of  the  questions  that  he  intended 
to  put  to  Mrs.  Jazeph;  and  said,  with  the  slight- 
est possible  dash  of  sarcasm,  when  it  came  to  his 
turn  to  speak,  that  they  were  excellent  questions 
in  a moral  point  of  view,  and  would  doubtless 
produce  answers  which  would  be  full  of  interest 
of  the  most  romantic  kind.  “But,”  he  added, 
“as  you  have  one  child  already,  Mr.  Frankland, 
and  as  you  may,  perhaps,  if  I may  venture  on 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


461 


suggesting  such  a thing,  have  more  in  the  course 
of  3^ears ; and  as  those  children,  when  they  grow 
up,  may  hear  of  the  loss  of  their  mother’s  fort- 
une, and  may  wish  to  know  why  it  was  sacri- 
ficed, I should  recommend — resting  the  matter 
on  family  grounds  alone,  and  not  going  further 
to  make  a legal  point  of  it  also — that  you  pro- 
cure from  Mrs.  Jazeph,  besides  the  viva  voce 
evidence  you  propose  to  extract  (against  the 
admissibility  of  which,  in  this  case,  I again 
protest),  a written  declaration,  which  you  may 
leave  behind  you  at  your  death,  and  which  may 
justify  you  in  the  eyes  of  your  children,  in  case 
the  necessity  for  such  justification  should  arise 
at  some  future  period.” 

This  advice  was  too  plainly  valuable  to  be 
neglected.  At  Leonard’s  request,  Mr.  Nixon 
drew  out  at  once  a form  of  declaration,  affirm- 
ing the  genuineness  of  the  letter  addressed  by 
the  late  Mrs.  Treverton  on  her  deathbed  to  her 
husband,  since  also  deceased,  and  bearing  wit- 
ness to  the  truth  of  the  statements  therein  con- 
tained, both  as  regarded  the  fraud  practiced  on 
Captain  Treverton  and  the  asserted  parentage 
of  the  child.  Telling  Mr.  Frankland  that  he 
would  do  well  to  have  Mrs.  Jazeph’s  signature 
to  this  document  attested  by  the  names  of  two 
competent  witnesses,  Mr.  Nixon  handed  the  dec- 
laration to  Rosamond  to  read  aloud  to  her  hus- 
band, and,  finding  that  no  objection  was  made 
to  any  part  of  it,  and  that  he  could  be  of  no 
further  use  in  the  present  early  stage  of  the 
proceedings,  rose  to  take  his  leave.  Leonard 


462 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS 


engaged  to  communicate  with  him  again  in  the 
course  of  the  day,  if  necessary;  and  he  retired, 
reiterating  his  protest  to  the  last,  and  declaring 
that  he  had  never  met  with  such  an  extraordi- 
nary case  and  such  a self-willed  client  before  in 
the  whole  course  of  his  practice. 

Nearly  an  hour  elapsed  after  the  departure  of 
the  lawyer  before  any  second  visitor  was  an- 
nounced. At  the  expiration  of  that  time,  the 
welcome  sound  of  footsteps  was  heard  approach- 
ing the  door,  and  Uncle  Joseph  entered  the  room. 

Rosamond’s  observation,  stimulated  by  anx- 
iety, detected  a change  in  his  look  and  manner 
the  moment  he  appeared.  His  face  was  harassed 
and  fatigued*  and  his  gait,  as  he  advanced  into 
the  room,  had  lost  the  briskness  and  activity 
which  so  quaintly  distinguished  it  when  she  saw 
him,  for  the  first  time,  at  Porthgenna  Tower. 
He  tried  to  add  to  his  first  words  of  greeting  an 
apology  for  being  late;  but  Rosamond  inter- 
rupted him,  in  her  eagerness  to  ask  the  first 
important  question. 

“We  know  that  you  have  discovered  her  ad- 
dress,” she  said,  anxiously,  “but  we  know  noth- 
ing more.  Is  she  as  you  feared  to  find  her?  Is 
she  ill?” 

The  old  man  shook  his  head  sadly.  “When  I 
showed  you  her  letter,”  he  said,  “what  did  I 
tell  you?  She  is  so  ill,  madam,  that  not  even 
the  message  your  kindness  gave  to  me  will  do 
her  any  good.” 

Those  few  simple  words  struck  Rosamond’s 
heart  with  a strange  fear,  which  silenced  her 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


463 


against  her  own  will  when  she  tried  to  speak 
again.  Uncle  Joseph  understood  the  anxious 
look  she  fixed  on  him,  and  the  quick  sign  she 
made  toward  the  chair  standing  nearest  to  the 
sofa  on  which  she  and  her  husband  were  sitting. 
There  he  took  his  place,  and  there  he  confided  to 
them  all  that  h.9  had  to  tell. 

He  had  followed,  he  said,  the  advice  which 
Rosamond  had  given  to  him  at  Porthgenna,  by 
taking  a letter  addressed  to  “S.  J.”  to  the  post- 
office  the  morning  after  his  arrival  in  London. 
The  messenger— a maid-servant — had  called  to 
inquire,  as  was  anticipated,  and  had  left  the 
post-office  with  his  letter  in  her  hand.  He  had 
followed  her  to  a lodging-house  in  a street  near, 
had  seen  her  let  herself  in  at  the  door,  and  had 
then  knocked  and  inquired  for  Mrs.  Jazeph.  The 
door  was  answered  by  an  old  woman,  who  looked 
like  the  landlady;  and  the  reply  was  that  no  one 
of  that  name  lived  there.  He  had  then  explained 
that  he  wished  to  see  the  person  for  whom  let- 
ters were  sent  to  the  neighboring  post-office, 
addressed  to  “S.  J.”;  but  the  old  woman  had 
answered,  in  the  surliest  way,  that  they  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  anoi^mous  people  or  their  friends 
in  that  house,  and  had  closed  the  door  in  his 
face.  Upon  this  he  had  gone  back  to  his  friend, 
the  German  baker,  to  get  advice;  and  had  been 
recommended  to  return,  after  allowing  some  lit- 
tle time  to  elapse,  to  ask  if  he  could  see  the  serv- 
ant who  waited  on  the  lodgers,  to  describe  his 
niece’s  appearance,  and  to  put  half  a crown  into 
the  girl’s  hand  to  help  her  to  understand  what 


464 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


he  wanted.  He  had  followed  these  directions, 
and  had  discovered  that  his  niece  was  lying  ill 
in  the  house,  under  the  assumed  name  of  4 4 Mrs. 
James.”  A little  persuasion  (after  the  present 
of  the  half-crown)  had  induced  the  girl  to  go  up- 
stairs and  announce  his  name.  After  that  there 
were  no  more  obstacles  to  be  overcome,  and  he 
was  conducted  immediately  to  the  room  occupied 
by  his  niece. 

He  was  inexpressibly  shocked  and  startled 
when  he  saw  her  by  the  violent  nervous  agita- 
tion which  she  manifested  as  he  approached  her 
bedside.  But  he  did  not  lose  heart  and  hope 
until  he  had  communicated  Mrs.  Frankland’s 
message,  and  had  found  that  it  failed  altogether 
in  producing  the  reassuring  effect  on  her  spirits 
which  he  had  trusted  and  believed  that  it  would 
exercise.  Instead  of  soothing,  it  seemed  to  ex- 
cite and  alarm  her  afresh.  Among  a host  of 
minute  inquiries  about  Mrs.  Frankland’s  looks, 
about  her  manner  toward  him,  about  the  exact 
words  she  had  spoken,  all  of  which  he  was  able 
to  answer  more  or  less  to  her  satisfaction,  she 
had  addressed  two  questions  to  him,  to  which  he 
was  utterly  unable  to  reply.  The  first  of  the 
questions  was,  Whether  Mrs.  Frankland  had 
said  anything  about  the  Secret?  The  second 
was,  Whether  she  had  spoken  any  chance  word 
to  lead  to  the  suspicion  that  she  had  found  out 
the  situation  of  the  Myrtle  Room? 

The  doctor  in  attendance  had  come  in,  the  old 
man  added,  while  he  was  still  sitting  by  his 
niece’s  bedside,  and  still  trying  ineffectually  to 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


465 


induce  her  to  accept  the  friendly  and  reassuring 
language  of  Mrs.  Frankland’s  message.  After 
making  some  inquiries  and  talking  a little  while 
on  indifferent  matters,  the  doctor  had  privately 
taken  him  aside;  had  informed  him  that  the 
pain  over  the  region  of  the  heart  and  the  diffi- 
culty in  breathing,  which  were  the  symptoms  of 
which  his  niece  complained,  were  more  serious 
in  their  nature  than  persons  uninstructed  in 
medical  matters  might  be  disposed  to  think; 
and  had  begged  him  to  give  her  no  more  mes- 
sages from  any  one,  unless  he  felt  perfectly  sure 
beforehand  that  they  would  have  the  effect  of 
clearing  her  mind,  at  once  and  forever,  from  the 
secret  anxieties  that  now  harassed  it — anxieties 
which  he  might  rest  assured  were  aggravating 
her  malady  day  by  day,  and  rendering  all  the 
medical  help  that  could  be  given  of  little  or  no 
avail. 

Upon  this,  after  sitting  longer  with  his  niece, 
and  after  holding  counsel  with  himself,  he  had 
resolved  to  write  privately  to  Mrs.  Frankland 
that  evening,  after  getting  back  to  his  friend’s 
house.  The  letter  had  taken  him  longer  to  com- 
pose than  any  one  accustomed  to  writing  would 
believe.  At  last,  after  delays  in  making  a fair 
copy  from  many  rough  drafts,  and  delays  in 
leaving  his  task  to  attend  to  his  niece,  he  had 
completed  a letter  narrating  what  had  happened 
since  his  arrival  in  London,  in  language  which 
he  hoped  might  be  understood.  Judging  by 
comparison  of  dates,  this  letter  must  have 
crossed  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland  on  the  road. 


466 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


It  contained  nothing  more  than  he  had  just  been 
relating  with  his  own  lips — except  that  it  also 
communicated,  as- a proof  that  distance  had  not 
diminished  the  fear  which  tormented  his  niece’s 
mind,  the  explanation  she  had  given  to  him  of 
her  concealment  of  her  name,  and  of  her  choice 
of  an  abode  among  strangers,  when  she  had 
friends  in  London  to  whom  she  might  have  gone. 
That  explanation  it  was  perhaps  needless  to  have 
lengthened  the  letter  by  repeating,  for  it  only 
involved  his  saying  over  again,  in  substance, 
what  he  had  already  said  in  speaking  of  the 
motive  which  had  forced  Sarah  to  part  from  him 
at  Truro. 

With  last  words  such  as  those,  the  sad  and 
simple  story  of  the  old  man  came  to  an  end. 
After  waiting  a little  to  recover  her  self-posses- 
sion and  to  steady  her  voice,  Rosamond  touched 
her  husbanrl  to  draw  his  attention  to  herself,  and 
whispered  to  him — 

“I  may  say  all,  now,  that  I wished  to  say  at 
Porthgenna?” 

“All,”  he  answered.  “If  you  can  trust  your- 
self, Rosamond,  it  is  fittest  that  he  should  hear  it 
from  your  lips.” 

After  the  first  natural  burst  of  astonishment 
was  over,  the  effect  of  the  disclosure  of  the  Secret 
on  Uncle  Joseph  exhibited  the  most  striking  con- 
trast that  can  be  imagined  to  the  effect  of  it  on 
Mr.  Nixon.  No  shadow  of  doubt  darkened  the 
old  man’s  face,  not  a word  of  objection  dropped 
from  his  lips.  The  one  emotion  excited  in  him 
was  simple,  unreflecting,  unalloyed  delight.  He 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


467 


sprang  to  his  feet  with  all  his  natural  activity, 
his  eyes  sparkled  again  with  all  their  natural 
brightness;  one  moment  he  clapped  his  hands 
like  a child;  the  next  he  caught  up  his  hat,  and 
entreated  Rosamond  to  let  him  lead  her  at  once 
to  his  niece’s  bedside.  “If  you  will  only  tell 
Sarah  what  you  have  just  told  me,”  he  cried, 
hurrying  across  the  room  to  open  the  door,  “you 
will  give  her  back  her  courage,  you  will  raise 
her  up  from  her  bed,  you  will  cure  her  before 
the  day  is  out!” 

A warning  word  from  Mr  Frankland  stopped 
him  on  a sudden,  and  brought  him  back,  silent 
and  attentive,  to  the  chair  that  he  had  left  the 
moment  before. 

“Think  a little  of  what  the  doctor  told  you,” 
said  Leonard.  “The  sudden  surprise  which  has 
made  you  so  happy  might  do  fatal  mischief  to 
your  niece.  Before  we  take  the  responsibility  of 
speaking  to  her  on  a subject  which  is  sure  to 
agitate  her  violently,  however  careful  we  may 
be  in  introducing  it,  we  ought  first,  I think,  for 
safety’s  sake,  to  apply  to  the  doctor  for  advice.” 

Rosamond  warmly  seconded  her  husband’s 
suggestion,  and,  with  her  characteristic  impa- 
tience of  delay,  proposed  that  they  should  find 
out  the  medical  man  immediately.  Uncle  Joseph 
announced — a little  unwillingly,  as  it  seemed — 
in  answer  to  her  inquiries,  that  he  knew  the 
place  of  the  doctor’s  residence,  and  that  he  was 
generally  to  be  found  at  home  before  one  o’clock 
in  the  afternoon.  It  was  then  just  half-past 
twelve;  and  Rosamond,  with  her  husband’s  ap- 


468 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


proval,  rang  the  bell  at  once  to  send  for  a 
cab. 

She  was  about  to  leave  the  room  to  put  on  her 
bonnet,  after  giving  the  necessary  order,  when 
the  old  man  stopped  her  by  asking,  with  some 
appearance  of  hesitation  and  confusion,  if  it 
was  considered  necessary  that  he  should  go  to 
the  doctor  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland;  add- 
ing, before  the  question  could  be  answered,  that 
he  would  greatly  prefer,  if  there  was  no  objec- 
tion to  it  on  their  parts,  being  left  to  wait  at  the 
hotel  to  receive  any  instructions  they  might  wish 
to  give  him  on  their  return.  Leonard  immedi- 
ately complied  with  his  request,  without  inquir- 
ing into  his  reasons  for  making  it ; but  Rosa- 
mond’s curiosity  was  aroused,  and  she  asked  why 
he  preferred  remaining  by  himself  at  the  hotel 
to  going  with  them  to  the  doctor. 

4 ‘I  like  him  not,”  said  the  old  man.  “When 
he  speaks  about  Sarah,  he  looks  and  talks  as  if 
he  thought  she  would  never  get  up  from  her  bed 
again.”  Answering  in  those  brief  words,  he 
walked  away  uneasily  to  the  window,  as  if  he 
desired  to  say  no  more. 

The  residence  of  the  doctor  was  at  some  little 
distance,  but  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland  arrived 
there  before  one  o’clock,  and  found  him  at  home. 
He  was  a young  man,  with  a mild,  grave  face, 
and  a quiet,  subdued  manner.  Daily  contact 
with  suffering  and  sorrow  had  perhaps  prema- 
turely steadied  and  saddened  his  character. 
Merely  introducing  her  husband  and  herself  to 
him,  as  persons  who  were  deeply  interested  in 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


469 


his  patient  at  the  lodging-house,  Rosamond  left 
it  to  Leonard  to  ask  the  first  questions  relating  to 
the  condition  of  her  mother’s  health. 

The  doctor’s  answer  was  ominously  prefaced 
by  a few  polite  words,  which  were  evidently  in- 
tended to  prepare  his  hearers  for  a less  hopeful 
report  than  they  might  have  come  there  expect- 
ing to  receive.  Carefully  divesting  the  subject 
of  all  professional  technicalities,  he  told  them 
that  his  patient  was  undoubtedly  affected  with 
serious  disease  of  the  heart.  The  exact  nature 
of  this  disease  he  candidly  acknowledged  to  be 
a matter  of  doubt,  which  various  medical  men 
might  decide  in  various  ways.  According  to 
the  opinion  which  he  had  himself  formed  from 
the  symptoms,  he  believed  that  the  patient’s 
malady  was  connected  with  the  artery  which 
conveys  blood  directly  from  the  heart  through 
the  system.  Having  found  her  singularly  un- 
willing to  answer  questions  relating  to  the  nature 
of  her  past  life,  he  could  only  guess  that  the  dis- 
ease was  of  long  standing;  that  it  w'as  originally 
produced  by  some  great  mental  shock,  followed 
by  long-wearing  anxiety  (of  which  her  face 
showed  palpable  traces) ; and  that  it  had  been 
seriously  aggravated  by  the  fatigue  of  a jour- 
ney to  London,  which  she  acknowledged  she  had 
undertaken  at  a time  when  great  nervous  ex- 
haustion rendered  her  totally  unfit  to  travel. 
Speaking  according  to  this  view  of  the  case,  it 
was  his  painful  duty  to  tell  her  friends  that  any 
violent  emotion  would  unquestionably  put  her 
life  in  danger.  At  the  same  time,  if  the  mental 


470 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


uneasiness  from  which  she  was  now  suffering 
could  be  removed,  and  if  she  could  be  placed  in 
a quiet,  comfortable  country  home,  among  people 
who  would  be  unremittingly  careful  in  keeping 
her  composed,  and  in  suffering  her  to  want  for 
nothing,  there  was  reason  to  hope  that  the  prog- 
ress of  the  disease  might  be  arrested,  and  that 
her  life  might  be  spared  for  some  years  to  come. 

Rosamond’s  heart  bounded  at  the  picture  of  the 
future  which  her  fancy  drew  from  the  sugges- 
tions that  lay  hidden  in  the  doctor’s  last  words. 
“She  can  command  every  advantage  you  have 
mentioned,  and  more,  if  more  is  required!”  she 
interposed  eagerly,  before  her  husband  could 
speak  again.  “Oh,  sir,  if  rest  among  kind 
friends  is  all  that  her  poor  weary  heart  wants, 
thank  God  we  can  give  it!” 

“We  can  give  it,”  said  Leonard,  continuing 
the  sentence  for  his  wife,  “if  the  doctor  will  sanc- 
tion our  making  a communication  to  his  patient, 
which  is  of  a nature  to  relieve  her  of  all  anixety, 
but  which,  it  is  necessary  to  add,  she  is  at  pres- 
ent quite  unprepared  to  receive.” 

“May  I ask,”  said  the  doctor,  “who  is  to  be 
intrusted  with  the  responsibility  of  making  the 
communication  you  mention?” 

“There  are  two  persons  who  could  be  intrusted 
with  it,”  answered  Leonard.  “One  is  the  old 
man  whom  you  have  seen  by  your  patient’s  bed- 
side. The  other  is  my  wife.” 

“In  that  case,”  rejoined  the  doctor,  looking  at 
Rosamond,  “there  can  be  no  doubt  that  this  lady 
is  the  fittest  person  to  undertake  the  duty.’2  He 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


471 


paused,  and  reflected  for  a moment;  then  added 
— “May  I inquire,  however,  before  I venture  on 
guiding  your  decision  one  way  or  the  other, 
whether  the  lady  is  as  familiarly  known  to  my 
patient,  and  is  on  the  same  intimate  terms  with 
her,  as  the  old  man?” 

“1  am  afraid  1 must  answer  No  to  both  those 
questions,”  replied  Leonard.  “And  I ought, 
perhaps,  to  tell  you,  at  the  same  time,  that  your 
patient  believes  my  wife  to  be  now  in  Cornwall. 
Her  first  appearance  in  the  sick-room  would,  I 
fear,  cause  great  surprise  to  the  sufferer,  and 
possibly  some  little  alarm  as  well.” 

“Under  those  circumstances,”  said  the  doctor, 
“the  risk  of  trusting  the  old  man,  simple  as  he 
is,  seems  to  be  infinitely  the  least  risk  of  the  two 
— for  the  plain  reason  that  his  presence  can  cause 
her  no  surprise.  However  unskillfully  he  may 
break  the  news,  he  will  have  the  great  advantage 
over  this  lady  of  not  appearing  unexpectedly  at 
the  bedside.  If  the  hazardous  experiment  must 
be  tried — and  I assume  that  it  must,  from  what 
you  have  said — you  have  no  choice,  I think,  but 
to  trust  it,  with  proper  cautions  and  instructions, 
to  the  old  man  to  carry  out.” 

After  arriving  at  that  conclusion,  there  was 
no  more  to  be  said  on  either  side,  The  interview 
terminated,  and  Rosamond  and  her  husband 
hastened  back  to  give  Uncle  Joseph  his  instruc- 
tions at  the  hotel. 

As  they  approached  the  door  of  their  sitting- 
room  they  were  surprised  by  hearing  the  sound 
of  music  inside.  On  entering,  they  found  the 


4?2 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


old  man  crouched  upon  a stool,  listening  to  a 
shabby  little  musical  box  which  was  placed  on  a 
table  close  by  him,  and  which  was  playing  an 
air  that  Rosamond  recognized  immediately  as 
the  “Batti,  Batti”  of  Mozart. 

“I  hope  you  will  pardon  me  for  making  music 
to  keep  myself  company  while  you  were  away,” 
said  Uncle  Joseph,  starting  up  in  some  little  con- 
fusion, and  touching  the  stop  of  the  box.  “This 
is,  if  you  please,  of  all  my  friends  and  compan- 
ions, the  oldest  that  is  left.  The  divine  Mozart, 
the  king  of  all  the  composers  that  ever  lived, 
gave  it  with  his  own  hand,  madam,  to  my  broth- 
er, when  Max  was  a boy  in  the  music  school  at 
Vienna.  Since  my  niece  left  me  in  Cornwall,  I 
have  not  had  the  heart  to  make  Mozart  sing  to 
me  out  of  this  little  bit  of  box  until  to-day.  Now 
that  you  have  made  me  happy  about  Sarah  again, 
my  ears  ache  once  more  for  the  tiny  ting-ting 
that  has  always  the  same  friendly  sound  to  my 
heart,  travel  where  I may.  But  enough  so!” 
said  the  old  man,  placing  the  box  in  the  leather 
case  by  his  side,  which  Rosamond  had  noticed 
there  when  she  first  saw  him  at  Porthgenna.  “I 
shall  put  back  my  singing-bird  into  his  cage,  and 
shall  ask,  when  that  is  done,  if  you  will  be  pleased 
to  tell  me  what  it  is  that  the  doctor  has  said?” 

Rosamond  answered  his  request  by  relating 
the  substance  of  the  conversation  which  had 
passed  between  her  husband  and  the  doctor.  She 
then,  with  many  preparatory  cautions,  proceeded 
to  instruct  the  old  man  how  to  disclose  the  dis- 
covery of  the  Secret  to  his  niece.  She  told  him 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


m 


that  the  circumstances  in  connection  with  it  must 
be  first  stated,  not  as  events  that  had  really  hap- 
pened, but  as  events  that  might  be  supposed  to 
have  happened.  She  put  the  words  that  he 
would  have  to  speak  into  his  mouth,  choosing 
the  fewest  and  the  plainest  that  would  answer 
the  purpose;  she  showed  him  how  he  might  glide 
almost  imperceptibly  from  referring  to  the  dis- 
covery as  a thing  that  might  be  supposed,  to  re- 
ferring to  it  as  a thing  that  had  really  happened; 
and  she  impressed  upon  him,  as  most  important 
of  all,  to  keep  perpetually  before  his  niece’s  mind 
the  fact  that  the  discovery  of  the  Secret  had  not 
awakened  one  bitter  feeling  or  one  resentful 
thought  toward  her,  in  the  minds  of  either  of 
the  persons  who  had  been  so  deeply  interested  in 
finding  it  out. 

Uncle  Joseph  listened  with  unwavering  atten- 
tion until  Rosamond  had  done;  then  rose  from 
his  seat,  fixed  his  eyes  intently  on  her  face,  and 
detected  an  expression  of  anxiety  and  doubt  in  it 
which  he  rightly  interpreted  as  referring  to  him- 
self. 

“May  I make  you  sure,  before  I go  away,  that 
I shall  forget  nothing?”  he  asked,  very  earnestly. 
“I  have  no  head  to  invent,  it  is  true;  but  I have 
something  in  me  that  can  remember,  and  the 
more  especially  when  it  is  for  Sarah’s  sake.  If 
you  please,  listen  now,  and  hear  if  I can  say  to 
you  over  again  all  that  you  have  said  to  me?” 

Standing  before  Rosamond,  with  something  in 
his  look  and  manner  strangely  and  touchingly 
suggestive  of  the  long-past  days  of  his  childhood, 


474 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


and  of  the  time  when  he  had  said  his  earliest 
lessons  at  his  mother’s  knee,  he  now  repeated, 
from  first  to  last,  the  instructions  that  had  been 
given  to  him,  with  a verbal  exactness,  with  an 
easy  readiness  of  memory,  which,  in  a man  of 
his  age,  was  nothing  less  than  astonishing. 
“Have  I kept  it  all  as  I should?”  he  asked  sim- 
ply, when  he  had  come  to  an  end.  “And  may  I 
go  my  ways  now,  and  take  my  good  news  to 
Sarah’s  bedside?” 

It  was  still  necessary  to  detain  him,  while 
Rosamond  and  her  husband  consulted  together 
on  the  best  and  safest  means  of  following  up  the 
avowal  that  the  Secret  was  discovered  by  the  an- 
nouncement of  their  own  presence  in  London. 

After  some  consideration,  Leonard  asked  his 
wife  to  produce  the  document  which  the  lawyer 
had  drawn  out  that  morning,  and  to  write  a few 
lines,  from  his  dictation,  on  the  blank  side  of  the 
paper,  requesting  Mrs.  Jazeph  to  read  the  form 
of  declaration,  and  to  affix  her  signature  to  it,  if 
she  felt  that  it  required  her,  in  every  particular, 
to  affirm  nothing  that  was  not  the  exact  truth. 
When  this  had  been  done,  and  when  the  leaf  on 
which  Mrs.  Frankland  had  written  had  been 
folded  outward,  so  that  it  might  be  the  first  page 
to  catch  the  eye,  Leonard  directed  that  the  paper 
should  be  given  to  the  old  man,  and  explained  to 
him  what  he  was  to  do  with  it,  in  these  words: 

“When  you  have  broken  the  news  about  the 
Secret  to  your  niece,”  he  said,  “and  when  you 
have  allowed  her  full  time  to  compose  herself,  if 
she  asks  questions  about  my  wife  and  myself  (as 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


475 


I believe  she  will),  hand  that  paper  to  her  for 
answer,  and  beg  her  to  read  it.  Whether  she  is 
willing  to  sign  it  or  not,  she  is  sure  to  inquire 
how  you  came  by  it.  Tell  her  in  return  that  you 
have  received  it  from  Mrs.  Frankland — using  the 
word  ‘received,’  so  that  she  may  believe  at  first 
that  it  was  sent  to  you  from  Porthgenna  by  post. 
If  you  find  that  she  signs  the  declaration,  and 
that  she  is  not  much  agitated  after  doing  so,  then 
tell  her,  in  the  same  gradual  way  in  which  you 
tell  the  truth  about  the  discovery  of  the  Secret, 
that  my  wife  gave  the  paper  to  you  with  her  own 
hands,  and  that  she  is  now  in  London—” 

“Waiting  and  longing  to  see  her,”  added 
'Rosamond.  “You,  who  forget  nothing,  will 
not,  I am  sure,  forget  to  say  that.” 

The  little  compliment  to  his  powers  of  memory 
made  Uncle  Joseph  color  with  pleasure,  as  if  he 
was  a boy  again.  Promising  to  prosre  worthy  of 
the  trust  reposed  in  him,  and  engaging  to  come 
back  and  relieve  Mrs.  Frankland  of  all  suspense 
before  the  day  was  out,  he  took  his  leave,  and 
went  forth  hopefully  on  his  momentous  errand. 

Rosamond  watched  him  from  the  window, 
threading  his  way  in  and  out  among  the  throng 
of  passengers  on  the  pavement,  until  he  was  lost 
to  view.  How  nimbly  the  light  little  figure  sped 
away  out  of  sight!  How  gayly  the  unclouded 
sunlight  poured  down  on  the  cheerful  bustle  in 
the  street!  The  whole  being  of  the  great  city 
basked  in  the  summer  glory  of  the  day;  all  its 
mighty  pulses  beat  high,  and  all  its  myriad 
voices  whispered  of  hope! 


476 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE  STORY  OF  THE  PAST. 

The  afternoon  wore  away  and  the  evening 
came,  and  still  there  were  no  signs  of  Uncle 
Joseph’s  return. 

Toward  seven  o’clock  Rosamond  was  sum- 
moned  by  the  nurse,  who  reported  that  the 
child  was  awake  and  fretful.  After  soothing 
and  quieting  him,  she  took  him  back  with  her 
to  the  sitting-room,  having  first,  with  her  usual 
consideration  for  the  comfort  of  any  servant 
whom  she  employed,  sent  the  nurse  downstairs, 
with  a leisure  hour  at  her  own  disposal,  after 
the  duties  of  the  day.  “I  don’t  like  to  be  away 
from  you,  Lenny,  at  this  anxious  time,”  she  said, 
when  she  rejoined  her  husband;  “so  I have 
brought  the  child  in  here.  He  is  not  likely  to 
be  troublesome  again,  and  the  having  him  to 
take  care  of  is  really  a relief  to  me  in  our  present 
state  of  suspense.” 

The  clock  on  the  mantel-piece  chimed  the  half 
hour  past  seven.  The  carriages  in  the  street 
were  following  one  another  more  and  more 
rapidly,  filled  with  people  in  full  dress,  on 
their  way  to  dinner,  or  on  their  way  to  the 
opera.  The  hawkers  were  shouting  proclama- 
tions of  news  in  the  neighboring  square,  with 
the  second  editions  of  the  evening  papers  under 
their  arms.  People  who  had  been  serving  be 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


477 


hind  the  counter  all  day  were  standing  at  the 
shop  door  to  get  a breath  of  fresh  air.  Work- 
ing men  were  trooping  homeward,  now  singly, 
now  together,  in  weary,  shambling  gangs.  Idlers, 
who  had  come  out  after  dinner,  were  lighting 
cigars  at  corners  of  streets,  and  looking  about 
them,  uncertain  which  way  they  should  turn 
their  steps  next.  It  was  just  that  transitional 
period  of  the  evening  at  which  the  street-life  of 
the  day  is  almost  over,  and  the  street-life  of  the 
night  has  not  quite  began — jast  the  time,  also, 
at  which  Rosamond,  after  vainly  trying  to  find 
relief  from  the  weariness  of  waiting  by  looking 
out  of  window,  was  becoming  more  and  more 
deeply  absorbed  in  her  own  anxious  thoughts — 
when  her  attention  was  abruptly  recalled  to 
events*  in  the  little  world  about  her  by  the  open- 
ing of  the  room  door.  She  looked  up  imme- 
diately from  the  child  lying  asleep  on  her  lap, 
and  saw  that  Uncle  Joseph  had  returned  at  last. 

The  old  man  came  in  silently,  with  the  form  of 
declaration  which  he  had  taken  away  with  him, 
by  Mr.  Rrankland’s  desire,  open  in  his  hand.  As 
he  approached  nearer  to  the  window,  Rosamond 
noticed  that  his  face  looked  as  if  it  had  grown 
strangely  older  during  the  few  hours  of  his  ab- 
sence. He  came  close  up  to  her,  and  still  not 
saying  a word,  laid  his  trembling  forefinger  low 
down  on  the  open  paper,  and  held  it  before  her 
so  that  she  could  look  at  the  place  thus  indicated 
without  rising  from  her  chair. 

His  silence  and  the  change  in  his  face  struck 
her  with  a sudden  dread  which  made  her  hesi- 


4?8 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


tate  before  she  spoke  to  him.  4 ‘Have  you  told 
her  all?”  she  asked,  after  a moment’s  delay, 
putting  the  question  in  low,  whispering  tones, 
and  not  heeding  the  paper. 

“This  answers  tliat  I have,”  he  said,  still 
pointing  to  the  declaration,  “See!  here  is  the 
name,  signed  in  the  place  that  was  left  for  it — 
signed  by  her  own  hand.” 

Rosamond  glanced  at  the  paper.  There  in- 
deed was  the  signature,  “S.  Jazeph”;  and  un- 
derneath it  were  added,  in  faintly  traced  lines 
of  parenthesis,  these  explanatory  words:  “For- 
merly, Sarah  Leeson,” 

“Why  don’t  you  speak?”  exclaimed  Rosa- 
mond, looking  at  him  in  growing  alarm.  “Why 
don’t  you  tell  us  how  she  bore  it?” 

“Ah!  don’t  ask  me,  don’t  ask  me!”  he  an- 
swered, shrinking  back  from  her  hand,  as  she 
tried  in  her  eagerness  to  lay  it  on  his  arm.  “I 
forgot  nothing,  I said  the  words  as  you  taught 
me  to  say  them — I went  the  roundabout  way  to 
the  truth  with  my  tongue;  but  my  face  took 
the  short  cut,  and  got  to  the  end  first.  * Pray, 
of  your  goodness  to  me,  ask  nothing  about  it! 
Be  satisfied,  if  you  please,  with  knowing  that 
she  is  better  and  quieter  and  happier  now.  The 
bad  is  over  and  past,  and  the  good  is  all  to  come. 
If  I tell  you  how  she  looked,  if  I tell  you  what 
she  said,  if  I tell  you  all  that  happened  when 
first  she  knew  the  truth,  the  fright  will  catch  me 
round  the  heart  again,  and  all  the  sobbing  and 
crying  that  I have  swallowed  down  will  rise  once 
more  and  choke  me.  I must  keep  my  head  clear 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


479 


and  my  eyes  dry— or  how  shall  I say  to  you  all 
the  things  that  I have  promised  Sarah,  as  I love 
my  own  soul  and  hers,  to  tell,  before  I lay  my- 
self down  to  rest  to-night?”  He  stopped,  took 
out  a coarse  little  cotton  pocket-handkerchief, 
with  a flaring  white  pattern  on  a dull  blue  ground, 
and  dried  a few  tears  that  bad  risen  in  his  eyes 
while  he  was  speaking.  “My  life  has  had  so 
much  happiness  in  it,”  he  said,  self-reproach- 
fully,  looking  at  Rosamond,  “that  my  courage, 
when  it  is  wanted  f or  the  time  of  trouble,  is  not 
easy  to  find.  And  yet,  I am  German!  all  my 
nation  are  philosophers! — why  is  it  that  I alone 
am  as  soft  in  my  brains,  and  as  weak  in  my 
heart,  as  the  pretty  little  baby  there,  that  is  lying 
asleep  in  your  lap?” 

“Don’t  speak  again;  don’t  tell  us  anything  till 
you  feel  more  composed,  ’ ’ said  Rosamond.  “ We 
are  relieved  from  our  worst  suspense  now  that 
we  know  you  have  left  her  quieter  and  better. 
I will  ask  no  more  questions;  at  least,”  she 
added,  after  a pause,  “I  will  only  ask  one.” 
She  stopped;  and  her  eyes  wandered  inquiringly 
toward  Leonard.  He  had  hitherto  been  listen- 
ing with  silent  interest  to  all  that  had  passed ; 
but  he  now  interposed  gently,  and  advised  his 
wife  to  wait  a little  before  she  ventured  on  say- 
ing anything  more. 

“It  is  such  an  easy  question  to  answer,” 
pleaded  Rosamond.  “I  only  wanted  to  hear 
whether  she  has  got  my  message — whether  she 
knows  that  I am  waiting  and  longing  to  see  her, 
if  she  will  but  let  me  come?” 


480 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


‘‘Yes,  yes,”  said  the  old  man,  nodding  to  Rosa- 
mond with  an  air  of  relief.  “That  question  is 
easy ; easier  even  than  you  think,  for  it  brings 
me  straight  to  the  beginning  of  all  that  I have 
got  to  say.” 

He  had  been  hitherto  walking  restlessly  about 
the  room;  sitting  down  one  moment,  and  getting 
up  the  next.  He  now  placed  a chair  for  himself 
midway  between  Rosamond — who  was  sitting, 
with  the  child,  near  the  window —and  her  hus- 
band, who  occupied  the  sofa  at  the  lower  end  of 
the  room.  In  this  position,  which  enabled  him 
to  address  himself  alternately  to  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Frankland  without  difficulty,  he  soon  recovered 
composure  enough  to  open  his  heart  unreservedly 
to  the  interest  of  his  subject. 

“When  the  worst  was  over  and  past,”  he  said, 
addressing  Rosamond — “when  she  could  listen 
and  when  I could  speak,  the  first  words  of  com- 
fort that  I said  to  her  were  the  words  of  your 
message.  Straight  she  looked  at  me,  with  doubt- 
ing, fearing  eyes.  ‘Was  her  husband  there  to 
hear  her?’  she  says.  ‘Did  he  look  angry?  did 
he  look  sorry?  did  he  change  ever  so  little,  when 
you  got  that  message  from  her?’  And  I said: 
‘No;  no  change,  no  anger,  no  sorrow — nothing 
like  it.’  And  she  said  again:  ‘Has  it  made  be- 
tween them  no  misery?  has  it  nothing  wrenched 
away  of  all  the  love  and  all  the  happiness  that 
binds  them  the  one  to  the  other?’  And  once  more 
I answered  to  that,  ‘No!  no  misery,  no  wrench. 
See  now!  I shall  go  my  ways  at  once  to  the  good 
wife,  and  fetch  her  here  to  answer  for  the  good 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


481 


husband  with  her  own  tongue. 5 While  I speak 
those  words  there  flies  out  over  all  her  face  a 
look — no,  not  a look — a light,  like  a sun-flash. 
While  I can  count  one,  it  lasts;  before  I can 
count  two,  it  is  gone;  the  face  is  all  dark  again; 
it  is  turned  away  from  me  on  the  pillow,  and  I 
see  the  hand  that  is  outside  the  bed  begin  to 
crumple  up  the  sheet.  ‘I  shall  go  my  ways, 
then,  and  fetch  the  good  wife,’  I say  again. 
And  she  says,  ‘No,  not  yet.  I must  not  see  her, 
I dare  not  see  her  till  she  knows — ;’  and  there 
she  stops,  and  the  hand  crumples  up  the  sheet 
again,  and  softly,  softly,  I say  to  her:  ‘Knows 
what?’  and  she  answers  me,  ‘What  I,  her  mother, 
cannot  tell  her  to  her  face,  for  shame.  ’ And  I 
say,  ‘So,  so,  my  child!  tell  it  not,  then — tell  it 
not  at  all.’  She  shakes  her  head  at  me,  and 
wrings  her  two  hands  together,  like  this,  on  the 
bed-cover.  ‘I  must  tell  it,’ she  says.  ‘I  must 
rid  my  heart  of  all  that  has  been  gnawing, 
gnawing,  gnawing  at  it,  or  how  shall  1 feel  the 
blessing  that  the  seeing  her  will  bring  to  me,  if 
my  conscience  is  only  clear?’  Then  she  stops  a 
little,  and  lifts  up  her  two  hands,  so,  and  cries 
out  loud,  ‘Oh,  will  God’s  mercy  show  me  no 
way  of  telling  it  that  will  spare  me  before  my 
child!’  And  I say,  ‘Hush,  then!  there  is  a way. 
Tell  it  to  Uncle  Joseph,  who  is  the  same  as  father 
to  you!  Tell  it  to  Uncle  Joseph,  whose  little  son 
died  in  your  arms;  whose  tears  your  hand  wiped 
away,  in  the  grief  time  long  ago.  Tell  it,  my 
child,  to  me;  and  I shall  take  the  risk,  and  the 
shame  (if  there  is  shame),  of  telling  it  again.  I, 
P— Vol  16 


482 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


with  nothing  to  speak  for  me  but  my  white  hair; 
I,  with  nothing  to  help  me  but  my  heart  that 
means  no  harm — I shall  go  to  that  good  and  true 
woman,  with  the  burden  of  her  mother’s  grief 
to  lay  before  her;  and,  in  my  soul  of  souls  I 
believe  it,  she  will  not  turn  away!’  ” 

He  paused,  and  looked  at  Rosamond.  Her 
head  was  bent  down  over  her  child ; her  tears 
were  dropping  slowly,  one  by  one,  on  the  bosom 
of  his  little  white  dress.  Waiting  a moment  to 
collect  herself  before  she  spoke,  she  held  out  her 
hand  to  the  old  man,  and  firmly  and  gratefully 
met  the  look  he  fixed  on  her.  “Oh,  goon,  go 
on!”  she  said.  “Let  me  prove  to  you  that 
your  generous  confidence  in  me  is  not  mis- 
placed/” 

“I  knew  it  was  not,  from  the  first,  as  surely 
as  I know  it  now!”  said  Uncle  Joseph.  “And 
Sarah,  when  I had  spoken  to  her,  she  knew  it 
too.  She  was  silent  for  a little;  she  cried  for 
a little;  she  leaned  over  from  the  pillow  and 
kissed  me  here,  on  my  cheek,  as  I sat  by  the 
bedside;  and  then  she  looked  back,  back,  back, 
in  her  mind,  to  the  Long  Ago,  and  very  quietly, 
very  slowly,  with  her  eyes  looking  into  my  eyes, 
and  her  hand  resting  so  in  mine,  she  spoke  the 
words  to  me  that  I must  now  speak  again  to  you, 
who  sit  here  to-day  as  her  judge,  before  you  go 
to  her  to-morrow  as  her  child.” 

“Not  as  her  judge!”  said  Rosamond.  “I 
can  not,  I must  not  hear  you  say  that.” 

“I  speak  her  words,  not  mine,”  rejoined  the 
old  man,  gravely.  “Wait  before  you  bid  me 


THE  BEAD  BECHET. 


483 


change  them  for  others — wait  till  you  know  the 
end.” 

He  drew  his  chair  a little  nearer  to  Rosamond, 
paused  for  a minute  or  two  to  arrange  his  recol- 
lections, and  to  separate  them  one  from  the 
other;  then  resumed. 

“As  Sarah-  began  with  me,”  he  said,  “so  I, 
for  my  part,  must  begin  also — which  means  to 
say,  that  I go  down  now  through  the  years  that 
are  past,  to  the  time  when  my  niece  went  out  to 
her  first  service.  You  know  that  the  sea-cap- 
tain, the  brave  and  good  man  Treverton,  took 
for  his  wife  an  artist  on  the  stage — what  they 
call  play-actress  here?  A grand,  big  woman, 
and  a handsome;  with  a life  and  a spirit  and 
a will  in  her  that  is  not  often  seen;  a woman  of 
the  sort  who  can  say,  We  will  do  this  thing,  or 
that  thing— and  do  it  in  the  spite  and  face  of  all 
the  scruples,  all  the  obstacles,  all  the  oppositions 
in  the  world,  To  this  lady  there  comes  for  maid 
to  wait  upon  her,  Sarah,  my  niece — a young  girl 
then,  pretty  and  kind  and  gentle,  and  very,  very 
shy.  Out  of  many  others  who  want  the  place, 
and  who  are  bolder  and  bigger  and  quicker  girls, 
Mistress  Treverton,  nevertheless,  picks  Sarah. 
This  is  strange,  but  it  is  stranger  yet  that  Sarah, 
on  her  part,  when  she  comes  out  of  her  first  fears 
and  doubts,  and  pains  of  shyness  about  herself, 
gets  to  be  fond  with  all  her  heart  of  that  grand 
and  handsome  mistress,  who  has  a life  and  a 
spirit  and  a will  of  the  sort  that  is  not  often  seen. 
This  is  strange  to  say,  but  it  is  also,  as  I know 
from  Sarah’s  own  lips,  every  word  of  it  true.” 


484 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“True  beyond  a doubt, ” said  Leonard.  “Most 
strong  attachments  are  formed  between  people 
who  are  unlike  each  other.” 

“So  the  life  they  led  in  that  ancient  house  of 
Porthgenna  began  happily  for  them  all,”  con- 
tinued the  old  man.  “The  love  that  the  mistress 
had  for  her  husband  was  so  full  in  her  heart  that 
it  overflowed  in  kindness  to  everybody  who  was 
about  her,  and  to  Sarah,  her  maid,  before  all  the 
rest.  She  would  have  nobody  but  Sarah  to  read 
to  her,  to  work  for  her,  to  dress  her  in  the  morn- 
ing and  the  evening,  and  to  undress  her  at  night. 
She  was  as  familiar  as  a sister  might  have  been 
with  Sarah,  when  they  two  were  alone,  in  the 
long  days  of  rain.  It  was  the  game  of  her  idle 
time — the  laugh  that  she  liked  most — to  astonish 
the  poor  country  maid,  who  had  never  so  much 
as  seen  what  a theater’s  inside  was  like,  by  dress- 
ing in  fine  clothes,  and  painting  her  face,  and 
speaking  and  doing  all  that  she  had  done  on  the 
theater-scene  in  the  days  that  were  before  her 
marriage.  The  more  she  puzzled  Sarah  with 
these  jokes  and  pranks  of  masquerade,  the  better 
she  was  always  pleased.  For  a year  this  easy, 
happy  life  went  on  in  the  ancient  house — happy 
for  all  the  servants — happier  still  for  the  master 
and  mistress,  but  for  the  want  of  one  thing  to 
make  the  whole  complete,  one  little  blessing  that 
was  always  hoped  for,  and  that  never  came — the 
same,  if  you  please,  as  the  blessing  in  the  long 
white  frock,  with  the  plump,  delicate  face  and 
the  tiny  arms,  that  I see  before  me  now.” 

He  paused,  to  point  the  allusion  by  nodding 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


485 


and  smiling  at  the  child  in  Rosamond’s  lap;  then 
resumed. 

“As  the  new  year  gets  on,”  he  said,  “Sarah 
sees  in  the  mistress  a change.  The  good  sea- 
captain  is  a man  who  loves  children,  and  is  fond 
of  getting  to  the  house  all  the  little  boys  and 
girls  of  his  friends  round  about.  He  plays  with 
them,  he  kisses  them,  he  makes  them  presents 
— he  is  the  best  friend  the  little  boys  and  girls 
love  ever  had.  The  mistress,  who  should  be  their 
best  friend,  too,  looks  on  and  says  nothing — 
looks  on,  red  sometimes,  and  sometimes  pale; 
goes  away  into  her  room  where  Sarah  is  at  work 
for  her,  and  walks  about  and  finds  fault;  and 
one  day  lets  the  evil  temper  fly  out  of  her  at  her 
tongue,  and  says:  6 Why  have  I got  no  child  for 
my  husband  to  be  fond  of?  Why  must  he  kiss 
and  play  always  with  the  children  of  other 
women?  They  take  his  love  away  for  something 
that  is  not  mine.  I hate  those  children  and  their 
mothers  too!’  It  is  her  passion  that  speaks  then, 
but  it  speaks  what  is  near  the  truth  for  all  that. 
She  will  not  make  friends  with  any  of  those 
mothers;  the  ladies  she  is  familiar-fond  with 
are  the  ladies  who  have  no  children,  or  the 
ladies  whose  families  are  all  upgrotvn.  You 
think  that  was  wrong  of  the  mistress?” 

He  put  the  question  to  Rosamond,  who  was 
toying  thoughtfully  with  one  of  the  baby’s  hands 
which  was  resting  in  hers.  “I  think  Mrs.  Trev- 
erton  was  very  much  to  be  pitied,”  she  answered, 
gently  lifting  the  child’s  hand  to  her  lips. 

“Then  1,  for  my  part,  think  so  too,”  said  Uncle 


486 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Joseph.  “To  be  pitied? — yes!  To  be  more  pitied 
some  months  after,  when  there  is  still  no  child 
and  no  hope  of  a child,  and  the  good  sea-captain 
says,  one  day,  4 1 rust  here,  I get  old  with  much 
idleness;  I want  to  be  on  the  sea  again.  I shall 
ask  for  a ship. ’ And  he  asks  for  a ship,  and 
they  give  it  him;  and  he  goes  away  on  his 
cruises  — with  much  kissing  and  fondness  at 
parting  from  his  wife — but  still  he  goes  away. 
And  when  he  is  gone,  the  mistress  comes  in 
again  where  Sarah  is  at  work  for  her  on  a fine 
new  gown,  and  snatches  it  away,  and  casts  it 
down  on  the  floor,  and  throws  after  it  all  the 
fine  jewels  she  has  got  on  her  table,  and  stamps 
and  cries  with  the  misery  and  the  passion  that  is 
in  her.  4 1 would  give  all  those  fine  things,  and 
go  in  rags  for  the  rest  of  my  life,  to  have  a child  !’ 
she  says.  4I  am  losing  my  husband’s  love:  he 
would  never  have  gone  away  from  me  if  I had 
brought  him  a child!’  Then  she  looks  in  the 
glass,  and  says  between  her  teeth:  4 Yes!  yes! 
I am  a fine  woman,  with  a fine  figure,  and  I 
would  change  places  with  the  ugliest,  crookedest 
wretch  in  all  creation  if  I could  only  have  a 
child!’  And  then  she  tells  Sarah  that  the  Cap- 
tain’s brother  spoke  the  vilest  of  all  vile  words 
of  her,  when  she  was  married,  because  she  was 
an  artist  on  the  stage;  and  she  says,  4If  I have 
no  child,  who  but  he — the  rascal-monster  that  I 
wish  I could  kill ! — who  but  he  will  come  to  pos- 
sess all  that  the  Captain  has  got?’  And  then 
she  cries  again,  and  says,  4I  am  losing  his  love 
— ah,  I know  it,  I know  it! — I am  losing  his 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


487 


love!’  Nothing  that  Sarah  can  say  will  alter 
her  thoughts  about  that.  And  the  months  go 
on,  and  the  sea-captain  comes  back,  and  still 
there  is  always  the  same  secret  grief  growing 
and  growing  in  the  mistress’s  heart — growing 
and  growing  till  it  is  now  the  third  year  since 
the  marriage,  and  there  is  no  hope  yet  of  a child; 
and  once  more  the  sea-captain  gets  tired  on  the 
land,  and  goes  off  again  for  his  cruises— long 
cruises,  this  time;  away,  away,  away,  at  the 
other  end  of  the  world.” 

Here  Uncle  Joseph  paused  once  more,  appar- 
ently hesitating  a little  about  how  he  should  go 
on  with  the  narrative.  His  mind  seemed  to  be 
soon  relieved  of  its  doubts,  but  his  face  saddened, 
and  his  tones  sank  lower,  when  he  addressed 
Rosamond  again. 

“I  must,  if  you  please,  go  away  from  the  mis- 
tress now,”  he  said,  “and  get  back  to  Sarah,  my 
niece,  and  say  one  word  also  of  a mining  man, 
with  the  Cornish  name  of  Polwheal.  This  was 
a young  man  that  worked  well  and  got  good 
wage,  and  kept  a good  character.  He  lived 
with  his  mother  in  the  little  village  that  is  near 
the  ancient  house;  and,  seeing  Sarah  from  time 
to  time,  took  much  fancy  to  her,  and  she  to  him. 
So  the  end  came  that  the  marriage- promise  was 
between  them  given  and  taken;  as  it  happened, 
about  the  time  when  the  sea-captain  was  back 
after  his  first  cruises,  and  just  when  he  was 
thinking  of  going  away  in  a ship  again.  ‘ Against 
the  marriage-promise  nor  he  nor  the  lady  his 
wife  had  a word  to  object,  for  the  miner,  Pol- 


488 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS 


wheal,  had  good  wage  and  kept  a good  character. 
Only  the  mistress  said  that  the  loss  of  Sarah 
would  be  sad  to  her — very  sad ; and  Sarah  an- 
swered that  there  was  yet  no  hurry  to  part.  So 
the  weeks  go  on,  and  the  sea-captain  sails  away 
again  for  his  long  cruises;  and  about  the  same 
time  also  the  mistress  finds  out  that  Sarah  frets, 
and  looks  not  like  herself,  and  that  the  miner, 
Polwheal,  he  lurks  here  and  lurks  there,  round 
about  the  house;  and  she  says  to  herself,  ‘So! 
so!  Am  I standing  too  much  in  the  way  of  this 
marriage?  For  Sarah’s  sake,  that  shall  not  be!’ 
And  she  calls  for  them  both  one  evening,  and 
talks  to  them  kindly,  and  sends  away  to  put  up 
the  banns  next  morning  the  young  man  Pol- 
wheal. That  night,  it  is  his  turn  to  go  down 
into  the  Porthgenna  mine,  and  work  after  the 
hours  of  the  day.  With  his  heart  all  light,  down 
into  that  dark  he  goes.  When  he  rises  to  the 
world  again,  it  is  the  dead  body  of  him  that  is 
drawn  up — the  dead  body,  with  a-11  the  young 
life,  by  the  fall  of  a rock,  crushed  out  in  a mo- 
ment. The  news  flies  here;  the  news  flies  there. 
With  no  break,  with  no  warning,  with  no  com- 
fort near,  it  comes  on  a sudden  to  Sarah,  my 
niece.  When  to  her  sweetheart  that  evening  she 
had  said  good-by,  she  was  a young,  pretty  girl; 
when,  six  little  weeks  after,  she,  from  the  sick- 
bed where  the  shock  threw  her,  got  up,  all  her 
youth  was  gone,  all  her  hair  was  gray,  and  in 
her  eyes  the  fright-look  was  fixed  that  has  never 
left  them  since.” 

The  simple  words  drew  the  picture  of  the 


THE  DEAD  SECRET 


489 


miner’s  death,  and  of  all  that  followed  it,  with 
a startling  distinctness — with  a fearful  reality. 
Rosamond  shuddered,  and  looked  at  her  husband. 
“Oh,  Lenny!”  she  murmured,  “the  first  news  of 
your  blindness  was  a sore  trial  to  me — but  what 
was  it  to  this!” 

“Pity  her!”  said  the  old  man.  “Pity  her  for 
what  she  suffered  then  ! Pity  her  for  what  came 
after,  that  was  worse ! Yet  five,  six,  seven  weeks 
pass,  after  the  death  of  the  mining  man,  and 
Sarah  in  the  body  suffers  less,  but  in  the  mind 
suffers  more.  The  mistress,  who  is  kind  and 
good  to  her  as  any  sister  could  be,  finds  out,  lit- 
tle by  little,  something  in  her  face  which  is  not 
the  pain-look,  nor  the  fright-look,  nor  the  grief- 
look;  something  which  the  eyes  can  see,  but 
which  the  tongue  cannot  put  into  words.  She 
looks  and  thinks,  looks  and  thinks,  till  there 
steals  into  her  mind  a doubt  which  makes  her 
tremble  at  herself,  which  drives  her  straight  for- 
ward into  Sarah’s  room,  which  sets  her  eyes 
searching  through  and  through  Sarah  to  her  in- 
most heart.  4 There  is  something  on  your  mind  be- 
sides your  grief  for  the  dead  and  gone,  ’ she  says, 
and  catches  Sarah  by  both  the  arms  before  she 
can  turn  way,  and  looks  her  in  the  face,  front  to 
front,  with  curious  eyes,  that  search  and  suspect 
steadily.  4 The  miner  man,  Polwheal,’  she  says; 
‘my  mind  misgives  me  about  the  miner  man, 
Polwheal,  Sarah!  I have  been  more  friend  to 
you  than  mistress.  As  your  friend  I ask  you 
now — tell  me  all  the  truth?’  The  question  waits ; 
but  no  word  of  answer ! only  Sarah  struggles  to 


490 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


get  away,  and  the  mistress  holds  her  tighter  yet, 
and  goes  on  and  says,  ‘I  know  that  the  marriage- 
promise  passed  between  you  and  miner  Pol  wheal; 
1 know  that  if  ever  there  was  truth  in  man,  there 
was  truth  in  him;  I know  that  he  went  out  from 
this  place  to  put  the  banns  up,  for  you  and  for 
him,  in  the  church.  Have  secrets  from  all  the 
world  besides,  Sarah,  but  have  none  from  me. 
Tell  me,  this  minute — teil  me  the  truth!  Of  all 
the  lost  creatures  in  this  big,  wide  world,  are 
you — V Before  she  can  say  the  words  that  are 
next  to  come,  Sarah  falls  on  her  knees,  and  cries 
out  suddenly  to  be  let  go  away  to  hide  and  die, 
and  be  heard  of  no  more.  That  was  all  the  an- 
swer she  gave.  It  was  enough  for  the  truth  then ; 
it  is  enough  for  the  truth  now.” 

He  sighed  bitterly,  and  ceased  speaking  for  a 
little  while.  No  voice  broke  the  reverent  silence 
that  followed  his  last  words.  The  one  living 
sound  that  stirred  in  the  stillness  of  the  room 
was  the  light  breathing  of  the  child  as  he  lay 
asleep  in  his  mother’s  arms. 

4 ‘ That  was  all  the  answer,”  repeated  the  old 
man,  “and  the  mistress  who  heard  it  says  noth- 
ing for  some  time  after,  but  still  looks  straight 
forward  into  Sarah’s  face,  and  grows  paler  and 
paler  the  longer  she  looks — paler  and  paler,  till 
on  a sudden  she  starts,  and  at  one  flash  the  red 
flies  back  into  her  face.  ‘No,’  she  says-,  whisper- 
ing and  looking  at  the  door,  ‘once  your  friend, 
Sarah,  always  your  friend.  Stay  in  this  house, 
keep  your  own  counsel,  do  as  I bid  you,  and 
leave  the  rest  to  me.’  And  with  that  she  turns 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


491 


round  quick  on  her  heel,  and  falls  to  walking  up 
and  down  the  room — faster,  faster,  faster,  till 
she  is  out  of  breath.  Then  she  pulls  the  bell 
with  an  angry  jerk,  and  calls  out  loud  at  the 
door — ‘The  horses!  1 want  to  ride;’  then  turns 
upon  Sarah — ‘My  gown  for  riding  in ! Pluck  up 
your  heart,  poor  creature ! On  my  life  and  hon- 
or, I will  save  you.  My  gowrq  my  gown,  then; 
I am  mad  for  a gallop  in  the  open  air!’  And 
she  goes  out,  in  a fever  of  the  blood,  and  gallops, 
gallops,  till  the  horse  reeks  again,  and  the  groom 
man  who  rides  after  her  wonders  if  she  is  mad. 
When  she  comes  back,  for  all  that  ride  in  the 
air,  she  is  not  tired.  The  whole  evening  after, 
she  is  now  walking  about  the  room,  and  now 
striking  loud  tunes  all  mixed  up  together  on  the 
piano.  At  the  bed-time,  she  cannot  rest.  Twice, 
three  times  in  the  night  she  frightens  Sarah  by 
coming  in  to  see  how  she  does,  and  by  saying 
always  those  same  words  over  again  i ‘Keep  your 
own  counsel,  do  as  I bid  you,  and  leave  the  rest 
to  me.’  In  the  morning  she  lies  late,  sleeps,  gets 
up  very  pale  and  quiet,  and -says  to  Sarah,  ‘No 
word  more  between  us  two  of  what  happened 
yesterday — no  word  till  the  time  comes  when  you 
fear  the  eyes  of  every  stranger  who  looks  at  you. 
Then  I shall  speak  again.  Till  that  time  let  us 
be  as  we  were  before  I put  the  question  yester- 
day, and  before  you  told  the  truth!’  ” 

At  this  point  he  broke  the  thread  of  the  narra- 
tive again,  explaining  as  he  did  so  that  his  mem- 
ory was  growing  confused  about  a question  of 
time,  which  he  wished  to  state  correctly  in  intro- 


492 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


ducing  the  series  of  events  that  were  next  to  be 
described. 

“Ah,  well!  well!”  he  said,  shaking  his  head, 
after  vainly  endeavoring  to  pursue  the  lost  recol- 
lection. “For  once,  I must  acknowledge  that  I 
forget.  Whether  it  was  two  months,  or  whether 
it  was  three,  after  the  mistress  said  those  last 
words  to  Sarah,  I know  not — but  at  the  end  of 
the  one  time  or  of  the  other  she  one  morning 
orders  her  carriage  and  goes  away  alone  to  Truro. 
In  the  evening  she  comes  back  with  two  large 
flat  baskets.  On  the  cover  of  the  one  there  is  a 
card,  and  written  on  it  are  the  letters  c3.  L.’  On 
the  cover  of  the  other  there  is  a card,  and  written 
on  it  are  the  letters  'R.  T.’  The  baskets  are 
taken  into  the  mistress’s  room,  and  Sarah  is 
called,  and  the  mistress  says  to  her,  'Open  the 
basket  with  S.  L.  on  it;  for  those  are  the  letters 
of  your  name,  and  the  things  in  it  are  yours.’ 
Inside  there  is  first  a box,  which  holds  a grand 
bonnet  of  black  lace;  then  a fine  dark  shawl; 
then  black  silk  of  the  best  kind,  enough  to  make 
a gown;  then  linen'and  siuff  for  the  under  gar- 
ments, all  of  the  finest  sort.  'Make  up  those 
things  to  fit  yourself,’  says  the  mistress.  'You 
are  so  much  littler  than  I,  that  to  make  the 
things  up  new  is  less  trouble  than,  from  my  fit 
to  yours,  to  alter  old  gowns.’  Sarah,  to  all  this, 
says  in  astonishment,  'Why?’  And  the  mistress 
answers,  'I  will  have  no  questions.  Remember 
what  I said — Keep  your  own  counsel,  and  leave 
the  rest  to  me!’  So  she  goes  out;  and  the  next 
thing  she  does  is  to  send  for  the  doctor  to  see  her. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


493 


He  asks  what  is  the  matter;  gets  for  answer  that 
Mistress  Treverton  feels  strangely,  and  not  like 
herself ; also  that  she  thinks  the  soft  air  of  Corn- 
wall makes  her  weak.  The  days  pass,  and  the 
doctor  comes  and  goes,  and,  say  what  he  may, 
those  two  answers  are  always  the  only  two  that 
he  can  get.  All  this  time  Sarah  is  at  work;  and 
when  she  has  done,  the  mistress  says,  ‘Now  for  the 
other  basket,  with  R.  T.  on  it;  for  those  are  the 
letters  of  my  name,  and  the  things  in  it  are  mine.’ 
Inside  this,  there  is  first  a box  which  holds  a 
common  bonnet  of  black  straw;  then  a coarse 
dark  shawl ; then  a gown  of  good  common  black 
stuff ; then  linen,  and  other  things  for  the  under 
garments,  that  are  only  of  the  sort  called  second 
best.  ‘Make  up  all  that  rubbish,’  says  the  mis- 
tress, ‘to  fit  me.  No  questions!  You  have 
always  done  as  I told  you;  do  as  I tell  you  now, 
or  you  are  a lost  woman.’  When  the  rubbish  is 
made  up,  she  tries  it  on,  and  looks  in  the  glass, 
and  laughs  in  a way  that  is  wild  and  desperate 
to  hear,  ‘Do  I make  a fine,  buxom,  comely  ser- 
vant-woman?’ she  says.  ‘Ha!  but  I have  acted 
that  part  times  enough  in  my  past  days  on  the 
theater -scene.’  And  then  she  takes  off  the 
clothes  again,  and  bids  Sarah  pack  them  up  at 
once  in  one  trunk,  and  pack  the  things  she  has 
made  for  herself  in  another.  ‘The  doctor  orders 
me  to  go  away  out  of  this  damp,  soft  Cornwall 
climate,  to  where  the  air  is  fresh  and  dry  and 
cheerful-keen,’  she  says,  and  laughs  again,  till 
the  room  rings  with  it.  At  the  same  time  Sarah 
begins  to  pack,  and  takes  some  knick-knack 


494 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS, 


things  off  the  table,  and  among  them  a brooch 
which  has  on  it  a likeness  of  the  sea-captain’s  face. 
The  mistress  sees  her,  turns  white  in  the  cheeks, 
trembles  all  over,  snatches  the  brooch  away  and 
locks  it  up  in  the  cabinet  in  a great  hurry,  as  if 
the  look  of  it  frightened  her.  CI  shall  leave  that 
behind  me,’  she  says,  and  turns  round  on  her 
heel,  and  goes  quickly  out  of  the  room.  You 
guess  now  what  the  thing  was  that  Mistress 
Treverton  had  it  in  her  mind  to  do?” 

He  addressed  the  question  to  Rosamond  first, 
and  then  repeated  it  to  Leonard.  They  both  an- 
swered in  the  affirmative,  and  entreated  him  to 
go  on. 

“You  guess?”  he  said.  “It  is  more  than 
Sarah,  at  that  time,  could  do.  What  with  the 
misery  in  her  own  mind,  and  the  strange  ways 
and  strange  words  of  her  mistress,  the  wits  that 
were  in  her  were  all  confused.  Nevertheless, 
what  her  mistress  has  said  to  her,  that  she  has 
always  done;  and  together  alone  those  two  from 
the  house  of  Porthgenna  drive  away.  Not  a 
word  says  the  mistress  till  they  have  got  to  the 
journey’s  end  for  the  first  day,  and  are  stopping 
at  their  inn  among  strangers  for  the  night. 
Then  at  last  she  speaks  out.  ‘Put  you  on,  Sarah, 
the  good  linen  and  the  good  gown  to-morrow,’ 
she  says,  €but  keep  the  common  bonnet  and  the 
common  shawl  till  we  get  into  the  carriage  again. 
I shall  put  on  the  coarse  linen  and  the  coarse 
gown,  and  keep  the  good  bonnet  and  shawl.  We 
shall  pass  so  the  people  at  the  inn,  on  our  way 
to  the  carriage,  without  very  much  risk  of  sur- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET* 


495 


prising  them  by  our  change  of  gown.  When  we 
are  out  on  the  road  again,  we  can  change  bon- 
nets and  shawls  in  the  carriage — and  then,  it  is 
all  do.ne.  You  are  the  married  lady,  Mrs.  Trev- 
erton,  and  1 am  your  maid  who  waits  on  you, 
Sarah  Leeson.’  At  that,  the  glimmering  on 
Sarah’s  mind  breaks  in  at  last:  she  shakes  with 
the  fright  it  gives  her,  and  all  she  can  say  is, 
‘Oh,  mistress!  for  the  love  of  Heaven,  what  is 
it  you  mean  to  do?’  ‘X  mean,’  the  mistress 
answers,  ‘to  save  you,  my  faithful  servant,  from 
disgrace  and  ruin;  to  prevent  every  penny  that 
the  captain  has  got  from  going  to  that  rascal- 
monster,  his  brother,  who  slandered  me;  and, 
last  and  most,  I mean  to  keep  my  husband  from 
going  away  to  sea  again,  by  making  him  love 
me  as  he  has  never  loved  me  yet.  Must  I say 
more,  you  poor,  afflicted,  frightened  creature — 
or  is  it  enough  so?’  And  all  that  Sarah  can  an- 
swer, is  to  cry  bitter  tears,  and  to  say  faintly 
‘No.’  ‘Do  you  doubt,’  says  the  mistress,  and 
grips  her  by  the  arm,  and  looks  her  close  in  the 
face  with  fierce  eyes — ‘Do  you  doubt  which  is 
best,  to  cast  yourself  into  the  world  forsaken  and 
disgraced  and  ruined,  or  to  save  yourself  from 
shame,  and  make  a friend  of  me  for  the  rest  of 
your  life?  You  weak,  wavering,  baby  woman, 
if  you  cannot  decide  for  yourself,  I shall  for  you. 
As  I will,  so  it  shall  be!  To-morrow,  and  the 
day  after  that,  we  go  on  and  on,  up  to  the  north, 
where  my  good  fool  of  a doctor  says  the  air  is 
cheerful-keen— up  to  the  north,  where  nobody 
knows  me  or  has  heard  my  name.  I,  the  maid, 


496 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


shall  spread  the  report  that  you,  the  lady,  are 
weak  in  your  health.  No  strangers  shall  you 
see,  but  the  doctor  and  the  nurse,  when  the  times 
to  call  them  comes.  Who  they  may  be,  I .know 
not ; but  this  1 do  know,  that  the  one  and  the 
other  will  :$erve  our  purpose  without  the  least 
suspicion  of  what  it  is;  and  that  when  we  get 
back  to  Cornwall  again,  the  secret  between  us 
two  will  to  no  third  person  have  been  trusted, 
and  will  remain  a Dead  Secret  to  the  end  of  the 
world?’  With  all  the  strength  of  the  strong  will 
that  is  in  her,  at  the  hush  of  night  and  in  a house 
of  strangers,  she  speaks  those  words  to  the  wo- 
man of  all  women  the  most  frightened,  and  most 
afflicted,  the  most  helpless,  the  most  ashamed. 
What  need  to  say  the  end?  On  that  night  Sarah 
first  stooped  her  shoulders  to  the  burden  that  has 
weighed  heavier  and  heavier  on  them  with  every 
year,  for  all  her  after-life. ” 

“How  many  days  did  they  travel  toward  the 
north?”  asked  Rosamond,  eagerly.  “Where  did 
the  journey  end?  In  England  or  in  Scotland?” 
“In  England,”  answered  Uncle  Joseph.  “But 
the  name  of  the  place  escapes  my  foreign  tongue. 
It  was  a little  town  by  the  side  of  the  sea — the 
great  sea  that  washes  between  my  country  and 
yours.  There  they  stopped,  and  there  they 
waited  till  the  time  came  to  send  for  the  doc- 
tor and  the  nurse.  And  as  Mistress  Treverton 
had  said  it  should  be,  so,  from  the  first  to  the 
last,  it  was.  The  doctor  and  the  nurse,  and  the 
people  of  the  house  were  all  strangers;  and  to 
this  day,  if  they  still  live,  they  believe  that 


THE  DEAD  SECRET.  4-97 

Sarah  was  the  sea-captain’s  wife,  and  that  Mis- 
tress Treverton  was  the  maid  who  waited  on  her. 
Not  till  they  were  far  back  on  their  way  home 
with  the  child  did  the  two  change  gowns  again, 
and  return  each  to  her  proper  place.  The  first 
friend  at  Porthgenna  that  the  mistress  sends  for 
to  show  the  child  to,  when  she  gets  back,  is  the 
doctor  who  lives  there.  'Did  you  think  what 
was  the  matter  with  me,  when  you  sent  me  away 
to  change  the  air?’  she  says,  and  laughs.  And 
the  doctor,  he  laughs  too,  and  says,  ‘Yes,  surely! 
but  I was  too  cunning  to  say  what  1 thought  in 
those  early  days,  because,  at  such  times,  there  is 
always  fear  of  a mistake.  And  you  found  the 
fine  dry  air  so  good  for  you  that  you  stopped?’ 
he  says.  ‘Well,  that  was  right!  right  for  your- 
self and  right  also  for  the  child.  ’ And  the  doc- 
tor laughs  again  and  the  mistress  with  him,  and 
Sarah,  who  stands  by  and  hears  them,  feels  as  if 
her  heart  would  burst  within  her,  with  the  hor- 
ror, and  the  misery,  and  the  shame  of  that  de- 
ceit. When  the  doctor’s  back  is  turned,  she  goes 
down  on  her  knees,  and  begs  and  prays  with  all 
her  soul  that  the  mistress  will  repent,  and  send 
her  away  with  her  child,  to  be  heard  of  at  Porth- 
genna no  more.  The  mistress,  with  that  tyrant 
will  of  hers,  has  but  four  words  of  answer  to 
give — ‘It  is  too  late!’  Five  weeks  after,  the  sea- 
captain  comes  back,  and  the  ‘Too  late’  is  a truth 
that  no  repentance  can  ever  alter  more.  The 
mistress’s  cunning  hand  that  has  guided  the  de- 
ceit from  the  first,  guides  it  always  to  the  last — 
guides  it  so  that  the  captain,  for  the  love  of  her 


498 


WORKS  OP  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


and  of  the  child,  goes  back  to  the  sea  no  more — 
guides  it  till  the  time  when  she  lays  her  down 
on  the  bed  to  die,  and  leaves  all  the  burden  of 
the  secret,  and  all  the  guilt  of  the  confession,  to 
Sarah — to  Sarah,  who,  under  the  tyranny  of  that 
tyrant  will,  has  lived  in  the  house,  for  five  long 
years,  a stranger  to  her  own  child!” 

“Five  years!”  murmured  Rosamond,  raising 
the  baby  gently  in  her  arms,  till  his  face  touched 
hers.  “Oh,  me!  five  long  years  a stranger  to 
the  blood  of  her  blood,  to  the  heart  of  her 
heart!” 

“And  all  the  years  after!”  said  the  old  man. 
“The  lonesome  years  and  years  among  strangers, 
with  no  sight  of  the  child  that  was  growing  up, 
with  no  heart  to  pour  the  story  of  her  sorrow  into 
the  ear  of  any  living  creature,  not  even  into 
mine!  ‘Better,’  I said  to  her,  when  she  could 
speak  to  me  no  more,  and  when  her  face  was 
turned  away  again  on  the  pillow — ‘a  thousand 
times  better,  my  child,  if  you  had  told  the  Se- 
cret!’ ‘Could  I tell  it,’  she  said,  ‘to  the  master 
who  trusted  me?  Could  I tell  it  afterward  to  the 
child,  whose  birth  was  a reproach  to  me?  Could 
she  listen  to  the  story  of  her  mother’s  shame,  told 
by  her  mother’s  lips?  How  will  she  listen  to  it 
now,  Uncle  Joseph,  when  she  hears  it  from  you? 
Remember  the  life  she  has  led,  and  the  high 
place  she  has  held  in  the  world.  How  can  she 
forgive  me?  How  can  she  ever  look  at  me  in 
kindness  again?’  ” 

“You  never  left  her,”  cried  Rosamond,  inter- 
posing before  he  could  say  more — “surely,  sure- 


THE  HEAD  SECRET. 


499 


ly,  you  never  left  her  with  that  thought  in  her 
heart  !” 

Uncle  Joseph’s  head  drooped  on  his  breast. 
“What  words  of  mine  could  change  it?”  he 
asked,  sadly. 

“Oh,  Lenny,  do  you  hear  that?  I must  leave 
you,  and  leave  the  baby.  I must  go  to  her,  or 
those  last  words  about  me  will  break  my  heart.” 
The  passionate  tears  burst  from  her  eyes  as  she 
spoke;  and  she  rose  hastily  from  her  seat,  with 
the  child  in  her  arms. 

“Not  to-night,”  said  Uncle  Joseph.  “She  said 
to  me  at  parting,  CI  can  bear  no  more  to-night; 
give  me  till  the  morning  to  get  as  strong  as  I 
can.’  ” 

“Oh,  go  back,  then,  yourself!”  cried  Rosa- 
mond. “Go,  for  God’s  sake,  without  wasting 
another  moment,  and  make  her  think  of  me  as 
she  ought!  Tell  her  how  I listened  to  you,  with 
my  own  child  sleeping  on  my  bosom  all  the  time 
— tell  her — oh,  no,  no!  words  are  too  cold  for  it! 
— Come  here,  come  close,  Uncle  Joseph  (1  shall 
always  call  you  so  now) ; come  close  to  me  and 
kiss  my  child — her  grandchild! — Kiss  him  on 
this  cheek,  because  it  has  lain  nearest  to  my 
heart.  And  now,  go  back,  kind  and  dear  old 
man — go  back  to  her  bedside,  and  say  nothing 
but  that  I sent  that  kiss  to  her!” 


500 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


CHAPTER  IV. 

THE  CLOSE  OF  BAY. 

The  night,  with  its  wakeful  anxieties,  wore 
away  at  last;  and  the  morning  light  dawned 
hopefully,  for  it  brought  with  it  the  promise  of 
an  end  to  Rosamond’s  suspense. 

The  first  event  of  the  day  was  the  arrival  of 
Mr.  Nixon,  who  had  received  a note  on  the  pre- 
vious evening,  written  by  Leonard’s  desire,  to 
invite  him  to  breakfast.  Before  the  lawyer  with- 
drew, he  had  settled  with  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Prank- 
land  all  the  preliminary  arrangements  that  were 
necessary  to  effect  the  restoration  of  the  purchase- 
money  of  Porthgenna  Tower,  and  had  dispatched 
a messenger  with  a letter  to  Bayswater,  announc- 
ing his  intention  of  calling  upon  Andrew  Trev- 
erton  that  afternoon,  on  private  business  of  im- 
portance relating  to  the  personal  estate  of  his  late 
brother. 

Toward  noon,  Uncle  Joseph  arrived  at  the 
hotel  to  take  Rosamond  with  him  to  the  house 
where  her  mother  lay  ill. 

He  came  in,  talking,  in  the  highest  spirits,  of 
the  wonderful  change  for  the  better  that  had 
been  wrought  in  his  niece  by  the  affectionate 
message  which  he  had  taken  to  her  on  the  previ- 
ous evening.  He  declared  that  it  had  made  her 
look  happier,  stronger,  younger,  all  in  a mo- 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


501 


ment;  that  it  had  given  her  the  longest,  quietest, 
sweetest  night’s  sleep  she  had  enjoyed  for  years 
and  years  past;  and,  last,  best  triumph  of  all, 
that  its  good  influence  had  been  acknowledged, 
not  an  hour  since,  by  the  doctor  himself. 

Rosamond  listened  thankfully,  but  it  was  with 
a wandering  attention,  with  a mind  ill  at  ease. 
When  she  had  taken  leave  of  her  husband,  and 
when  she  and  Uncle  Joseph  were  out  in  the 
street  together,  there  was  something  in  the  pros- 
pect of  the  approaching  interview  between  her 
mother  and  herself  which,  in  spite  of  her  efforts 
to  resist  the  sensation,  almost  daunted  her.  If 
they  could  have  come  together,  and  have  recog- 
nized each  other  without  time  to  think  what 
should  be  first  said  or  done  on  either  side,  the 
meeting  would  have  been  nothing  more  than  the 
natural  result  of  the  discovery  of  the  Secret. 
But,  as  it  was,  the  waiting,  the  doubting,. the 
mournful  story  of  the  past,  which  had  filled  up 
the  emptiness  of  the  last  day  of  suspense,  all  had 
their  depressing  effect  on  Rosamond’s  impulsive 
disposition.  Without  a thought  in  her  heart 
which  was  not  tender,  compassionate,  and  true 
toward  her  mother,  she  now  felt,  nevertheless,  a 
vague  sense  of  embarrassment,  which  increased 
to  positive  uneasiness  the  nearer  she  and  the  old 
man  drew  to  their  short  journey’s  end.  As  they 
stopped  at  last  at  the  house  door,  she  was  shocked 
to  find  herself  thinking  beforehand  of  what  first 
words  it  would  be  best  to  say,  of  what  first  things 
it  would  be  best  to  do,  as  if  she  had  been  about 
to  visit  a total  stranger,  whose  favorable  opinion 


502  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

she  wished  to  secure,  and  whose  readiness  to 
receive  her  cordially  was  a matter  of  doubt. 

The  first  person  whom  they  sa  w after  the  door 
was  opened  was  the  doctor.  He  advanced  to- 
ward them  from  a little  empty  room  at  the  end 
of  the  hall,  and  asked  permission  to  speak  with 
Mrs.  Frankland  for  a few  minutes.  Leaving 
Rosamond  to  her  interview  with  the  doctor, 
Uncle  Joseph  gayly  ascended  the  stairs  to  tell 
his  niece  of  her  arrival,  with  an  activity  which 
might  well  have  been  envied  by  many  a man  of 
half  his  years. 

“Is  she  worse?  Is  there  any  danger  in  my 
seeing  her?”  asked  Rosamond,  as  the  doctor  led 
her  into  the  empty  room. 

“Quite  the  contrary,”  he  replied.  “She  is 
much  better  this  morning;  and  the  improve- 
ment, I find,  is  mainly  due  to  the  composing 
and  cheering  influence  on  her  mind  of  a message 
which  she  received  from  you  last  night.  It  is 
the  discovery  of  this  which  makes  me  anxious  to 
speak  to  you  now  on  the  subject  of  one  particu- 
lar symptom  of  her  mental  condition  which  sur- 
prised and  alarmed  me  when  I first  discovered  it, 
and  which  has  perplexed  me  very  much  ever 
since.  She  is  suffering — not  to  detain  you,  and 
to  put  the  matter  at  once  in  the  plainest  terms — • 
under  a mental  hallucination  of  a very  extraordi- 
nary kind,  which,  so  far  as  I have  observed  it, 
affects  her,  generally,  toward  the  close  of  the 
day,  when  the  light  gets  obscure.  At  such 
times,  there  is  an  expression  in  her  eyes  as  if  she 
fancied  some  person  had  walked  suddenly  into 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


503 


the  room.  She  looks  and  talks  at  perfect  va- 
cancy, as  you  or  I might  look  or  talk  at  some 
one  who  was  really  standing  and  listening  to  us. 
The  old  man,  her  uncle,  tells  me  that  he  first  ob- 
served this  when  she  came  to  see  him  (in  Corn- 
wall, I think  he  said)  a short  time  since.  She 
was  speaking  to  him  then  on  private  affairs  of 
her  own,  when  she  suddenly  stopped  just  as  the 
evening  was  closing  in,  startled  him  by  a ques- 
tion on  the  old  superstitious  subject  of  the  re-ap- 
pearance of  the  dead,  and  then,  looking  away  at 
a shadowed  corner  of  the  room,  began  to  talk  at 
it — exactly  as  I have  seen  her  look  and  heard  her 
talk  upstairs.  Whether  she  fancies  that  she  is 
pursued  by  an  apparition,  or  whether  she  imag- 
ines that  some  living  person  enters  her  room  at 
certain  times,  is  more  than  I can  say;  and  the 
old  man  gives  me  no  help  in  guessing  at  the 
truth.  Can  you  throw  any  light  on  the  matter?” 

“I  hear  of  it  now  for  the  first  time,”  answered 
Rosamond,  looking  at  the  doctor  in  amazement 
and  alarm, 

“Perhaps,”  he  rejoined,  “she  may  be  more 
communicative  with  you  than  she  is  with  me. 
If  you  could  manage  to  be  by  her  bedside  at 
dusk  .to-day  or  to-morraw,  and  if  you  think  you 
are  not  likely  to  be  frightened  by  it,  I should 
very  much  wish  you  to  see  and  hear  her,  when 
she  is  under  the  influence  of  her  delusion.  I 
have  tried  in  vain  to  draw  her  attention  away 
from  it,  at  the  time,  or  to  get  her  to  rpeak  of  it 
afterward.  Yon  have  evidently  considerable  in- 
fluence over  her,  and  you  might  therefore  sue- 


504 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


ceed  where  I have  failed.  In  her  state  of  health, 
I attach  great  importance  to  clearing  her  mind 
of  everything  that  clouds  and  oppresses  it,  and 
especially  of  such  a serious  hallucination  as  that 
which  I have  been  describing.  If  you  could 
succeed  in  combating  it,  you  would  be  doing  her 
the  greatest  service,  and  would  be  materially 
helping  my  efforts  to  improve  her  health.  Do 
you  mind  trying  the  experiment?” 

Rosamond  promised  to  devote  herself  unre- 
servedly to  this  service,  or  to  any  other  which 
was  for  the  patient’s  good.  The  doctor  thanked 
her,  and  led  the  way  back  into  the  hall  again. 
Uncle  Joseph  was  descending  the  stairs  as  they 
came  out  of  the  room.  “She  is  ready  and  long- 
ing to  see  you,”  he  whispered  in  Rosamond’s 
ear. 

“I  am  sure  I need  not  impress  on  you  again 
the  very  serious  necessity  of  keeping  her  com- 
posed,” said  the  doctor,  taking  his  leave.  “It 
is.  I assure  you,  no  exaggeration  to  say  that  her 
life  depends  on  it.” 

Rosamond  bowed  to  him  in  silence,  and  in 
silence  followed  the  old  man  up  the  stairs. 

At  the  door  of  a back  room  on  the  second  floor 
Uncle  Joseph  stopped.  • 

“She  is  there,”  he  whispered  eagerly.  “I 
leave  you  to  go  in  by  yourself,  for  it  is  best  that 
you  should  be  alone  with  her  at  first.  I shall 
walk  about  the  streets  in  the  fine  warm  sun- 
shine, and  think  of  you  both,  and  come  back 
after  a little.  Go  in;  and  the  blessing  and  the 
mercy  of  God  go  with  you!”  He  lifted  her 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


505 


hand  to  his  lips,  and  softly  and  quickly  de- 
scended the  stairs  again. 

Rosamond  stood  alone  before  the  door.  A 
momentary  tremor  shook  her  from  head  to  foot 
as  she  stretched  out  her  hand  to  knock  at  it. 
The  same  sweet  voice  that  she  had  last  heard 
in  her  bedroom  at  West  Winston  answered  her 
now.  As  its  tones  fell  on  her  ear,  a thought  of 
her  child  stole  quietly  into  her  heart  and  stilled 
its  quick  throbbing.  She  opened  the  door  at 
once  and  went  in. 

Neither  the  look  of  the  room  inside,  nor  the 
view  from  the  window;  neither  its  characteristic 
ornaments,  nor  its  prominent  pieces  of  furniture; 
none  of  the  objects  in  it  or  about  it,  which  would 
have  caught  her  quick  observation  at  other  times, 
struck  it  now.  From  the  moment  when  she 
opened  the  door,  she  saw  nothing  but  the  pil- 
lows of  the  bed,  the  head  resting  on  them,  and 
the  face  turned  toward  hers.  As  she  stepped 
across  the  threshold,  that  face  changed ; the  eye- 
lids drooped  a little,  and  the  pale  cheeks  were 
tinged  suddenly  with  burning  red. 

Was  her  mother  ashamed  to  look  at  her? 

The  bare  doubt  freed  Rosamond  in  an  instant 
from  all  the  self-distrust,  all  the  embarrassment, 
all  the  hesitation  about  choosing  her  words  and 
directing  her  actions  which  had  fettered  her  gen- 
erous impulses  up  to  this  time.  She  ran  to  the 
bed,  raised  the  worn,  shrinking  figure  in  her 
arms,  and  laid  the  poor  weary  head  gently  on 
her  warm,  young  bosom.  “I  have  come  at  last, 
mother,  to  take  my  turn  at  nursing  you,”  she 


506 


WORKS  OF  "WILKIE  COLLINS. 


said.  Her  heart  swelled  as  those  simple  words 
came  from  it — her  eyes  overflowed — she  could 
say  no  more. 

“Don’t  cry!”  murmured  the  faint,  sweet  voice 
timidly.  “I  have  no  right  to  bring  you  here 
and  make  you  sorry.  Don’t,  don’t  cry!” 

“Oh,  hush!  hush!  I shall  do  nothing  but  cry 
if  you  talk  to  me  like  that!”  said  Rosamond. 
“Let  us  forget  that  we  have  ever  been  parted — 
call  me  by  my  name — speak  to  me  as  I shall 
speak  to  my  own  child,  if  God  spares  me  to  see 
him  grow  up.  Say  ‘Rosamond,’  and — oh,  pray, 
pray — tell  me  to  do  something  for  you!”  She 
tore  asunder  passionately  the  strings  of  her  bon- 
net, and  threw  it  from  her  on  the  nearest  chair. 
“Look!  here  is  your  glass  of  lemonade -on  the 
table.  Say  ‘Rosamond,  bring  me  my  lemonade !’ 
say  it  familiarly,  mother!  say  it  as  if  you  knew 
that  I was  bound  to  obey  you!” 

She  repeated  the  words  after  her  daughter,  but 
still  not  in  steady  tones — repeated  them  with  a 
sad,  wondering  smile,  and  with  a lingering  of 
the  voice  on  the  name  of  Rosamond,  as  if  it  was 
a luxury  to  her  to  utter  it. 

“You  made  me  so  happy  with  that  message 
and  with  the  kiss  you  sent  me  from  your  child,” 
she  said,  when  Rosamond  had  given  her  the 
lemonade  and  was  seated  quietly  by  the  bedside 
again.  “It  was  such  a kind  way  of  saying  that 
you  pardoned  me!  It  gave  me  all  the  courage  I 
wanted  to  speak  to  you  as  I am  speaking  now. 
Perhaps  my  illness  has  changed  me — but  I don’t 
feel  frightened  and  strange  with  you,  as  I thought 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


507 


I should,  at  our  first  meeting  after  you  knew  the 
Secret.  I think  I shall  soon  get  well  enough  to 
see  your  child.  Is  he  like  what  you  were  at  his 
age?  If  he  is,  he  must  be  very,  very — ” She 
stopped.  “I  may  think  of  that,”  she  added, 
after  waiting  a little,  “but  I had  better  not  talk 
of  it,  or  I shall  cry  too;  and  1 want  to  have  done 
with  sorrow  now.” 

While  she  spoke  those  words,  while  her  eyes 
were  fixed  with  wistful  eagerness  on  her  daugh- 
ter’s face,  the  whole  instinct  of  neatness  was  still 
mechanically  at  work  in  her  weak,  wasted  fin- 
gers. Rosamond  had  tossed  her  gloves  from  her 
on  the  bed  but  the  minute  before;  and  already 
her  mother  had  taken  them  up,  and  was  smooth- 
ing them  out  carefully  and  folding  them  neatly 
together,  all  the  while  she  spoke. 

“Call  me  ‘mother’  again,”  she  said,  as  Rosa- 
mond took  the  gloves  from  her  and  thanked  her 
with  a kiss  for  folding  them  up.  “I  have  never 
heard  you  call  me  ‘mother’  till  now — never, 
never  till  now,  from  the  day  when  you  were 
born!” 

Rosamond  checked  the  tears  that  were  rising 
in  her  eyes  again,  and  repeated  the  word. 

“It  is  all  the  happiness  I want,  to  lie  here  and 
look  at  you,  and  hear  you  say  that!  Is  there 
any  other  woman  in  the  world,  my  love,  who 
has  a face  so  beautiful  and  so  kind  as  yours?” 
She  paused  and  smiled  faintly.  “1  can’t  look  at 
those  sweet  rosy  lips  now,”  she  said,  “without 
thinking  how  many  kisses  they  owe  me!” 

“If  you  had  only  let  me  pay  the  debt  before!” 


508 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


said  Rosamond,  taking  her  mother’s  hand,  as 
she  was  accustomed  to  take  her  child’s,  and  plac- 
ing it  on  her  neck.  “If  you  had  only  spoken  the 
first  time  we  met,  when  you  came  to  nurse  me ! 
How  sorrowfully  I have  thought  of  that  since! 
Oh,  mother,  did  I distress  you  much  in  my  igno- 
rance? Did  it  make  you  cry  when  you  thought 
of  me  after  that?’’ 

“Distress  me!  All  my  distress,  Rosamond, 
has  been  of  my  own  making,  not  of  yours.  My 
kind,  thoughtful  love!  you  said,  ‘Don’t  be  hard 
on  her’ — do  you  remember?  When  I was  being 
sent  away,  deservedly  sent  away,  dear,  for  fright- 
ening you,  you  said  to  your  husband,  ‘Don’t  be 
hard  on  her!’  Only  five  words — but,  oh,  what  a 
comfort  it  was  to  me  afterward  to  think  that  you 
had  said  them!  I did  want  to  kiss  you  so,  Rosa- 
mond, when  I was  brushing  your  hair.  I had 
such  a hard  fight  of  it  to  keep  from  crying  out 
loud  when  I heard  you,  behind  the  bed-curtains, 
wishing  your  little  child  good-night.  My  heart 
was  in  my  mouth,  choking  me  all  that  time.  I 
took  your  part  afterward,  when  I went  back  to 
my  mistress — I wouldn’t  hear  her  say  a harsh 
word  of  you.  I could  have  looked  a hundred 
mistresses  in  the  face  then,  and  contradicted 
them  all.  Oh,  no,  no,  no!  you  never  distressed 
me.  My  worst  grief  at  going  away  was  years 
and  years  before  I came  to  nurse  you  at  West 
Winston.  It  was  when  I left  my  place  at  Porth. 
genna;  when  I stole  into  your  nursery  on  that 
dreadful  morning,  and  when  I saw  you  with 
both  your  little  arms  round  my  master’s  neck. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


509 


The  doll  you  had  taken  to  bed  with  you  was  in 
one  of  your  hands,  and  your  head  was  resting  on 
the  Captain’s  bosom,  just  as  mine  rests  now — 
oh,  so  happily,  Rosamond! — on  yours,  I heard 
the  last  words  he  was  speaking  to  you — words 
you  were  too  young  to  remember.  4 Hush ! Rosie, 
dear,’  he  said,  4don’t  cry  any  more  for  poor 
mamma.  Think  of  poor  papa,  and  try  to  com* 
fort  him!’  There,  my  love — there  was  the  bit- 
terest distress  and  the  hardest  to  bear!  I,  your 
own  mother,  standing  like  a spy,  and  hearing 
him  say  that  to  the  child  I dared  not  own! 
4Think  of  poor  papa!’  My  own  Rosamond!  you 
know,  now,  what  father  I thought  of  when  he 
said  those  words!  How  could  I tell  him  the  Se- 
cret? how  could  I give  him  the  letter,  with  his 
wife  dead  that  morning — with  nobody  but  you 
to  comfort  him — with  the  awful  truth  crushing 
down  upon  my  heart,  at  every  word  he  spoke,  as 
heavily  as  ever  the  rock  crushed  down  upon  the 
father  you  never  saw!” 

44Don’t  speak  of  it  now!”  said  Rosamond. 
44Don’t  let  us  refer  again  to  the  past:  I know  all 
I ought  to  know,  all  I wish  to  know  of  it.  We 
will  talk  of  the  future,  mother,  and  of  happier 
times  to  come.  Let  me  tell  you  about  my  hus- 
band. If  any  words  can  praise  him  as  he  ought 
to  be  praised,  and  thank  him  as  he  ought  to  be 
thanked,  I am  sure  mine  ought — I am  sure  yours 
will ! Let  me  tell  you  what  he  said  and  what 
he  did  when  I read  to  him  the  letter  that  I found 
in  the  Myrtle  Room.  Yes,  yes,  do  let  me!” 
Warned  by  a remembrance  of  the  doctor’s  last 


510 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


injunctions;  trembling  in  secret,  as  she  felt  un- 
der her  hand  the  heavy,  toilsome,  irregular  heav- 
ing of  her  mother’s  heart,  as  she  saw  the  rapid 
changes  of  color,  from  pale  to  red,  and  from  red 
to  pale  again,  that  fluttered  across  her  mother’s 
face,  she  resolved  to  let  no  more  words  pass  be- 
tween them  which  were  of  a nature  to  recall 
painfully  the  sorrows  and  the  suffering  of  the 
years  that  were  gone.  After  describing  the  in- 
terview between  her  husband  and  herself  which 
ended  in  the  disclosure  of  the  Secret,  she  led  her 
mother,  with  compassionate  abruptness,  to  speak 
of  the  future,  of  the  time  when  she  would  be  able 
to  travel  again,  of  the  happiness  of  returning  to- 
gether to  Cornwall,  of  the  little  festival  they 
might  hold  on  arriving  at  Uncle  Joseph’s  house 
in  Truro,  and  of  the  time  after  that,  when  they 
might  go  on  still  further  to  Porthgenna,  or  per- 
haps to  some  other  place  where  new  scenes  and 
new  faces  might  help  them  to  forget  all  sad  asso- 
ciations which  it  was  best  to  think  of  no  more. 

Rosamond  was  still  speaking  on  these  topics, 
her  mother  was  still  listening  to  her  with  grow- 
ing interest  in  every  word  that  she  said,  when 
Uncle  Joseph  returned.  He  brought  in  with 
him  a basket  of  flowers  and  a basket  of  fruit, 
which  he  held  up  in  triumph  at  the  foot  of  his 
niece’s  bed. 

“I  have  been  walking  about,  my  child,  in  the 
fine  bright  sunshine,”  he  said,  “and  waiting  to 
give  your  face  plenty  of  time  to  look  happy,  so 
that  I might  see  it  again  as  I want  to  see  it  al- 
ways, for  the  rest  of  my  life.  Aha,  Sarah ! it  is 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


511 


I who  have  brought  the  right  doctor  to  cure 
you!”  he  added  gayly,  looking  at  Rosamond. 
“She  has  made  you  better  already.  Wait  but  a 
little  while  longer,  and  she  shall  get  you  up 
from  your  bed  again,  with  your  two  cheeks  as 
red,  and  your  heart  as  light,  and  your  tongue  as 
fast  to  chatter  as  mine.  See  the  fine  flowers  and 
the  fruit  I have  bought  that  is  nice  to  your  eyes, 
and  nice  to  your  nose,  and  nicest  of  all  to  put 
into  your  mouth!  If  is  festival-time  with  us  to- 
day, and  we  must  make  the  room  bright,  bright, 
bright,  all  over.  And  then,  there. is  your  dinner 
to  come  soon;  I have  seen  it  on  the  dish—a 
cherub  among  chicken-f  o*wls ! And,  after  that, 
there  is  your  fine  sound  sleep,  with  Mozart  to 
sing  the  cradle  song,  and  with  me  to  sit  for 
watch,  and  to  go  downstairs  when  you  wake  up 
again,  and  fetch  your  cup  of  tea.  Ah,  my  child, 
my  child,  what  a fine  thing  it  is  to  have  come 
at  last  to  this  festival-day!” 

With  a bright  look  at  Rosamond,  and  with 
both  his  hands  full  of  flowers,  he  turned  away 
from  his  niece  to  begin  decorating  the  room. 
Except  when  she  thanked  the  old  man  for  the 
presents  he  had  brought,  her  attention  had  never 
wandered,  all  the  while  he  had  been  speaking, 
from  her  daughter’s  face;  and  her  first  words, 
when  he  was  silent  again,  were  addressed  to 
Rosamond  alone. 

“While  I am  happy  with  my  child,”  she  said, 
“I  am  keeping  you  from  yours . 1,  of  all  per- 

sons, ought  to  be  the  last  to  part  you  from  each 
other  too  long.  Go  back  now,  my  love,  to  your 


512 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


husband  and  your  child ; and  leave  me  to  my 
grateful  thoughts  and  my  dreams  of  better 
times. 5 ’ 

“If  you  please,  answer  Yes  to  that,  for  your 
mother’s  sake,”  said  Uncle  Joseph,  before  Rosa- 
mond could  reply.  “The  doctor  says  she  must 
take  her  repose  in  the  day  as  well  as  her  repose 
in  the  night.  And  how  shall  I get  her  to  close 
her  eyes,  so  long  as  she  has  the  temptation  to 
keep  them  open  upon  you?” 

Rosamond  felt  the  truth  of  those  last  words, 
and  consented  to  go  back  for  a few  hours  to  the 
hotel,  on  the  understanding  that  she  was  to  re- 
sume her  place  at  the  bedside  in  the  evening. 
After  making  this  arrangement,  she  waited  long 
enough  in  the  room  to  see  the  meal  brought  up 
which  Uncle  Joseph  had  announced,  and  to  aid 
the  old  man  in  encouraging  her  mother  to  par- 
take of  it.  When  the  tray  had  been  removed, 
and  when  the  pillows  of  the  bed  had  been  com- 
fortably arranged  by  her  own  hands,  she  at  last 
prevailed  on  herself  to  take  leave. 

Her  mother’s  arms  lingered  round  her  neck; 
her  mother’s  cheek  nestled  fondly  against  hers. 
“Go,  my  dear,  go  now,  or  I shall  get  too  selfish 
to  part  with  you  even  for  a few  hours,”  mur- 
mured the  sweet  voice,  in  the  lowest,  softest 
tones.  “My  own  Rosamond!  I have  no  words 
to  bless  you  that  are  good  enough ; no  words  to 
thank  you  that  will  speak  as  gratefully  for  me 
as  they  ought ! Happiness  has  been  long  in 
reaching  me — but,  oh,  how  mercifully  it  has 
come  at  last!” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET, 


513 


Before  she  passed  the  door,  Rosamond  stopped 
and  looked  back  into  the  room.  The  table,  the 
mantel-piece,  the  little  framed  prints  oil  the  wall 
were  bright  with  flowers;  the  musical  box  was 
just  playing  the  first  sweet  notes  of  the  air  from 
Mozart;  Uncle  Joseph  was  seated  already  in  his 
accustomed  place  by  the  bed,  with  the  basket  of 
fruit  on  his  knees;  the  pale,  worn  face  on  the 
pillow  was  tenderly  lighted  up  by  a smile;  peace 
and  comfort  and  repose,  all  mingled  together 
happily  in  the  picture  of  the  sick-room,  all  joined 
in  leading  Rosamond’s  thoughts  to  dwell  quietly 
on  the  hope  of  a happier  time. 

Three  hours  passed.  The  last  glory  of  the 
sun  was  lighting  the  long  summer  day  to  its 
rest  in  the  western  heaven,  when  Rosamond 
returned  to  her  mother’s  bedside. 

She  entered  the  room  softly.  The  one  window 
in  it  looked  toward  the  west,  and  on  that  side  of 
the  bed  the  chair  was  placed  which  Uncle  Joseph 
had  occupied  when  she  left  him,  and  in  which 
she  now  found  him  still  seated  on  her  return. 
He  raised  his  fingers  to  his  lips,  and  looked 
toward  the  bed,  as  she  opened  the  door.  Her 
mother  was  asleep,  with  her  hand  resting  in  the 
hand  of  the  old  man. 

As  Rosamond  noiselessly  advanced,  she  saw 
that  Uncle  Joseph’s  eyes  looked  dim  and  weary. 
The  constraint  of  the  position  that  he  occupied, 
which  made  it  impossible  for  him  to  move  with- 
out the  risk  of  awakening  his  niece,  seemed  to 
be  beginning  to  fatigue  him.  Rosamond  re- 
Q— Vol.  16 


514 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


moved  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  and  made  a sign 
to  him  to  rise  and  let  her  take  his  place. 

“Yes,  yes!”  she  whispered,  seeing  him  reply 
by  a shake  of  the  head.  “Let  me  take  my  turn, 
while  you  go  out  a little  and  enjoy  the  cool  even- 
ing air.  There  is  no  fear  of  waking  her;  her 
hand  is  not  clasping  yours,  but  only  resting  in 
it —let  me  steal  mine  into  its  place  gently,  and 
we  shall  not  disturb  her.” 

She  slipped  her  hand  under  her  mother’s  while 
she  spoke.  Uncle  Joseph  smiled  as  he  rose  from 
his  chair,  and  resigned  his  place  to  her.  “You 
will  have  your  way,”  he  said;  “you  are  too  quick 
and  sharp  for  an  old  man  like  me.” 

“Has  she  been  long  asleep?”  asked  Rosamond. 

“Nearly  two  hours,”  answered  Uncle  Joseph. 
“But  it  has  not  been  the  good  sleep  I wanted  for 
her — a dreaming,  talking,  restless  sleep.  It  is 
only  ten  little  minutes  since  she  has  been  so  quiet 
as  you  see  her  now.” 

“Surely  you  let  in  too  much  light?”  whispered 
Rosamond,  looking  round  at  the  window,  through 
which  the  glow  of  the  evening  sky  poured  warmly 
into  the  room. 

“No,  no!”  he  hastily  rejoined.  “Asleep  or 
awake,  she  always  wants  the  light.  If  I go 
away  for  a little  while,  as  you  tell  me,  and  if 
it  gets  on  to  be  dusk  before  I come  back,  light 
both  those  candles  on  the  chimney-piece.  I 
shall  try  to  be  here  again  before  that;  but  if 
the  time  slips  by  too  fast  for  me,  and  if  it  so 
happens  that  she  wakes  and  talks  strangely,  and 
looks  much  away  from  you  into  that  far  corner 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


515 


of  the  room  there,  remember  that  the  matches 
and  the  candles  are  together  on  the  chimney- 
piece,  and  that  the  sooner  you  light  them  after 
the  dim  twilight- time,  the  better  it  will  be.” 
With  those  words  he  stole  on  tiptoe  to  the  door 
and  went  out. 

His  parting  directions  recalled  Rosamond  to 
a remembrance  of  what  had  passed  between  the 
doctor  and  herself  that  morning.  She  looked 
round  again  anxiously  to  the  window. 

The  sun  was  just  sinking  beyond  the  dis- 
tant house-tops;  the  close  of  day  was  not  far 
off. 

As  she  turned  her  head  once  more  toward  the 
bed,  a momentary  chill  crept  over  her.  She 
trembled  a little,  partly  at  the  sensation  itself, 
partly  at  the  recollection  it  aroused  of  that  other 
chill  which  had  struck  her  in  the  solitude  of  the 
Myrtle  Room. 

Stirred  by  the  mysterious  sympathies  of  touch, 
her  mother’s  hand  at  the  same  instant  moved  in 
hers,  and  over  the  sad  peacefulness  of  the  weary 
face  there  fluttered  a momentary  trouble — the 
flying  shadow  of  a dream.  The  pale,  parted  lips 
opened,  closed,  quivered,  opened  again;  the  toil- 
ing breath  came  and  went  quickly  and  more 
quickly;  the  head  moved  uneasily  on  the  pillow; 
the  eyelids  half  unclosed  themselves;  low,  faint, 
moaning  sounds  poured  rapidly  from  the  lips — 
changed  ere  long  to  half-articulated  sentences — 
then  merged  softly  into  intelligible  speech,  and 
uttered  these  words : 

“Swear  that  you  will  not  destroy  this  paper! 


516 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Swear  that  you  will  not  take  this  paper  away 
with  you  if  you  leave  the  house!’’ 

The  words  that  followed  these  were  whispered 
so  rapidly  and  so  low  that  Rosamond’s  ear  failed 
to  catch  them.  They  were  followed  by  a short 
silence.  Then  the  dreaming  voice  spoke  again 
suddenly,  and  spoke  louder. 

“Where?  where?  where?”  it  said.  “In  the 
bookcase?  In  the  table:drawer?  — Stop!  stop! 
In  the  picture  of  the  ghost — ” 

The  last  words  struck  cold  on  Rosamond’s 
heart.  She  drew  back  suddenly  with  a move- 
ment of  alarm — checked  herself  the  instant  after, 
and  bent  down  over  the  pillow  again.  But  it 
was  too  late.  Her  hand  had  moved  abruptly 
when  she  drew  back,  and  her  mother  awoke  with 
a start  and  a faint  cry  — with  vacant,  terror- 
stricken  eyes  and  with  the  perspiration  standing 
thick  on  her  forehead. 

“Mother!”  cried  Rosamond,  raising  her  on 
the  pillow.  “I  have  come  back.  Don’t  you 
know  me?” 

“Mother?”  she  repeated,  in  mournful,  ques- 
tioning tones — “Mother?”  At  the  second  repe- 
tition of  the  word  a bright  flush  of  delight  and 
surprise  broke  out  on  her  face,  and  she  clasped 
both  arms  suddenly  round  her  daughter’s  neck. 
“Oh,  my  own  Rosamond!”  she  said.  “If  I had 
ever  been  used  to  waking  up  and  seeing  your 
dear  face  look  at  me,  I should  have  known  you 
sooner,  in  spite  of  my  dream ! Did  you  wake 
me,  my  love?  or  did  I wake  myself?” 

“I  am  afraid  I awoke  you,  mother.” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


517 


“Don’t  say  ‘afraid.’  I would  wake  from  the 
sweetest  sleep  that  ever  woman  had  to  see  your 
face  and  to  hear  you  say  ‘mother’  to  me.  You 
have  delivered  me,  my  love,  from  the  terror  of 
one  of  my  dreadful  dreams.  Oh,  Rosamond!  I 
think  I should  live  to  be  happy  in  your  love,  If 
I could  only  get  Porthgenna  Tower  out  of  my 
mind — if  I could  only  never  remember  again  the 
bed-chamber  where  my  mistress  died,  and  the 
room  were  I hid  the  letter — ” 

“We  will  try  and  forget  Porthgenna  Tower 
now,”  said  Rosamond.  “Shall  we  talk  about 
other  places  where  I have  lived,  which  you  have 
never  seen?  Or  shall  I read  to  you,  mother? 
Have  you  got  any  book  here  that  you  are  fond 
of?” 

She  looked  across  the  bed  at  the  table  on  the 
other  side.  There  was  nothing  on  it  but  some 
bottles  of  medicine,  a few  of  Uncle  Joseph’s  flow- 
ers in  a glass  of  water,  and  a little  oblong  work- 
box.  She  looked  round  at  the  chest  of  drawers 
behind  her — there  were  no  books  placed  on  the 
top  of  it.  Before  she  turned  toward  the  bed 
again,  her  eyes  wandered  aside  to  the  window. 
The  sun  was  lost  beyond  the  distant  house-tops; 
the  close  of  day  was  near  at  hand. 

“If  I could  forget!  Oh,  me,  if  I could  only 
forget!”  said  her  mother,  sighing  wearily,  and 
beating  her  hand  on  the  coverlid  of  the  bed. 

“Are  you  well  enough,  dear,  to  amuse  your- 
self with  work?”  asked  Rosamond,  pointing  to 
the  little  oblong  box  on  the  table,  and  trying  to 
lead  the  conversation  to  a harmless,  every-day 


518 


WORKS  OK  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


topic,  by  asking  questions  about  it.  4 4 What 
work  do  you  do?  May  I look  at  it?” 

Her  face  lost  its  weary,  suffering  look,  and 
brightened  once  more  into  a smile.  “There  is 
no  work  there,”  she  said.  “All  the  treasures  I 
had  in  the  world,  till  you  came  to  see  me,  are 
shut  up  in  that  one  little  box.  Open  it,  my  love, 
and  look  inside.” 

Rosamond  obeyed,  placing  the  box  on  the  bed 
where  her  mother  could  see  it  easily.  The  first 
object  that  she  discovered  inside  was  a little 
book,  in  dark,  worn-binding.  It  was  an  old 
copy  of  Wesley’s  Hymns.  Some  withered 
blades  of  grass  lay  between  its  pages;  and  on 
one  of  its  blank  leaves  was  this  inscription — 
“Sarah  Leeson,  her  book.  The  gift  of  Hugh 
Pol  wheal.” 

' “Look  at  it,  my  dear,”  said  her  mother.  “I 
want  you  to  know  it  again.  When  my  time 
comes  to  leave  you,  Rosamond,  lay  it  on  my 
bosom  with  your  own  dear  hands,  and  put  a lit- 
tle morsel  of  your  hair  with  it,  and  bury  me  in 
the  grave  in  Porthgenna  churchyard,  where  he 
has  been  waiting  for  me  to  come  to  him  so  many 
weary  years.  The  other  things  in  the  box,  Rosa- 
mond, belong  to  you;  they  are  little  stolen  keep- 
sakes that  used  to  remind  me  of  my  child,  when 
I was  alone  in  the  world.  Perhaps,  years  and 
years  hence,  when  your  brown  hair  begins  to 
grow  gray  like  mine,  you  may  like  to  show  these 
poor  trifles  to  your  children  when  you  talk  about 
me.  Don’t  mind  telling  them,  Rosamond,  how 
your  mother  sinned  and  how  she  suffered — you 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


519 


can  always  let  these  little  trifles  speak  for  her  at 
the  end.  The  least  of  them  will  show  that  she 
always  loved  you.” 

She  took  out  of  the  box  a morsel  of  neatly 
folded  white  paper,  which  had  been  placed  un- 
der the  book  of  Wesley’s  Hymns,  opened  it,  and 
showed  her  daughter  a few  faded  laburnum 
leaves  that  lay  inside.  C<1  took  these  from  your 
bed,  Rosamond,  when  I came,  as  a stranger,  to 
nurse  you  at  West  Winston.  I tried  to  take  a 
ribbon  out  of  your  trunk,  love,  after  I had  taken 
the  flowers — a ribbon  that  I knew  had  been  round 
your  neck.  But  the  doctor  came  near  at  the 
time,  and  frightened  me.” 

She  folded  the  paper  up  again,  laid  it  aside  on 
the  table,  and  drew  from  the  box  next  a small 
print  which  had  been  taken  from  the  illustrations 
to  a pocket-book.  It  represented  a little  girl,  in 
gypsy-hat,  sitting  by  the  water-side,  and  weav- 
ing a daisy  chain.  As  a design,  it  was  worth- 
less; as  a print,  it  had  not  even  the  mechanical 
merit  of  being  a good  impression.  Underneath 
it  a line  was  written  in  faintly  penciled  letters 
—“Rosamond  when  I last  saw  her:” 

“It  was  never  pretty  enough  for  you,”  she 
said.  “But  still  there  was  something  in  it  that 
helped  me  to  remember  what  my  own  love  was 
like  when  she  was  a little  girl.” 

She  put  the  engraving  aside  with  the  laburnum 
leaves,  and  took  from  the  box  a leaf  of  a copy- 
book, folded  in  two,  out  of  which  there  dropped 
a tiny  strip  of  paper,  covered  with  small  printed 
letters.  She  looked  at  the  strip  of  paper  first. 


520 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


‘‘The  advertisement  of  your  marriage,  Rosa- 
mond,” she  said.  “I  used  to  be  fond  of  read- 
ing it  over  and  over  again  to  myself  when  I was 
alone,  and  trying  to  fancy  how  you  looked  and 
what  dress  you  wore.  If  I had  only  known 
when  you  were  going  to  be  married,  I would 
have  ventured  into  the  church,  my  love,  to  look 
at  you  and  at  your  husband.  But  that  was  not  to 
be — and  perhaps  it  was  best  so,  for  the  seeing 
you  in  that  stolen  way  might  only  have  made 
my  trials  harder  to  bear  afterward.  I have  had 
no  other  keepsake  to  remind  me  of  you,  Rosa- 
mond, except  this  leaf  out  of  your  first  copy- 
book. The  nurse-maid  at  Porthgenna  tore  up 
the  rest  one  day  to  light  the  fire,  and  I took  this 
leaf  when  she  was  not  looking.  See!  you  had 
not  got  as  far  as  words  then — you  could  only 
do  up-si rokes  and  down-strokes.  Oh  me!  how 
many  times  I have  sat  looking  at  this  one  leaf 
of  paper,  and  trying  to  fancy  that  I saw  your 
small  child’s  hand  traveling  over  it,  with  the 
pen  held  tight  in  the  rosy  little  fingers.  I think 
I have  cried  oftener,  my  darling,  over  that  first 
copy  of  yours  than  over  all  my  other  keepsakes 
put  together.” 

Rosamond  turned  aside  her  face  toward  the 
window  to  hide  the  tears  which  she  could  re- 
strain no  longer. 

As  she  wiped  them  away,  the  first  sight  of  the 
darkening  sky  warned  her  that  the  twilight  dim- 
ness was  coming  soon.  How  dull  and  faint  the 
glow  in  the  west  looked  now!  how  near  it  was 
to  the  close  of  day ! 


THE  DEAD  dECRET. 


521 


When  she  turned  toward  the  bed  again,  her 
mother  was  still  looking  at  the  leaf  of  the  copy- 
book. 

“That  nurse-maid  who  tore  up  all  the  rest  of 
it  to  light  the  fire,”  she  said,  “was  a kind  friend 
to  me  in  those  early  days  at  Porthgenna.  She 
used  sometimes  to  let  me  put  you  to  bed,  Rosa- 
mond ; and  never  asked  questions,  or  teased  me, 
as  the  rest  of  them  did.  She  risked  the  loss  of 
her  place  by  being  so  good  to  me.  My  mistress 
was  afraid  of  my  betraying  myself  and  betray- 
ing her  if  I was  much  in  the  nursery,  and  she 
gave  orders  that  I was  not  to  go  there,  because 
it  was  not  my  place.  None  of  the  other  women- 
servants  were  so  often  stopped  from  playing  with 
you  and  kissing  you,  Rosamond,  as  I was.  But 
the  nurse-maid — God  bless  and  prosper  her  for  it ! 
— stood  my  friend.  I often  lifted  you  into  your 
little  cot,  my  love,  and  wished  you  good-night, 
when  my  mistress  thought  I w'as  at  work  in  her 
room.  You  used  to  say  you  liked  your  nurse  bet- 
ter than  you  liked  me,  but  you  never  told  me  so 
fretfully ; and  you  always  put  your  laughing  lips 
up  to  mine  whenever  I asked  you  for  a kiss.” 

Rosamond  laid  her  hand  gently  on  the  pillow 
by  the  side  of  her  mother’s.  “Try  to  think  less 
of  the  past,  dear,  and  more  of  the  future,”  she 
whispered,  pleadingly;  “try  to  think  of  the  time 
when  my  child  will  help  you  to  recall  those  old 
days  without  their  sorrow — the  time  when  you 
will  teach  him  to  put  his  lips  up  to  yours,  as  I 
used  to  put  mine.” 

“I  will  try,  Rosamond — but  my  only  thoughts 


522 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


of  the  future,  for  years  and  years  past,  have  been 
thoughts  of  meeting  you  in  heaven.  If  my  sins 
are  forgiven,  how  shall  we  meet  there?  Shall 
you  be  like  my  little  child  to  me — the  child  I 
never  saw  again  after  she  was  five  years  old?  I 
wonder  if  the  mercy  of  God  will  recompense  me 
for  our  long  separation  on  earth?  I wonder  if 
you  will  first  appear  to  me  in  the  happy  world 
with  your  child’s  face,  and  be  what  you  should 
have  been  to  me  on  earth,  my  little  angel  that  I 
can  carry  in  my  arms?  If  we  pray  in  heaven, 
shall  I teach  you  your  prayers  there,  as  some 
comfort  to  me  for  never  having  taught  them  to 
you  here?” 

She  paused,  smiled  sadly,  and,  closing  her  eyes, 
gave  herself  in  silence  to  the  dream-thoughts  that 
were  still  floating  in  her  mind.  Thinking  that 
she  might  sink  to  rest  again  if  she  was  left  un- 
disturbed, Rosamond  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 
After  watching  the  peaceful  face  for  some  time, 
she  became  conscious  that  the  light  was  fading 
on  it  slowly.  As  that  conviction  impressed  itself 
on  her,  she  looked  round  at  the  window  once 
more. 

The  western  clouds  wore  their  quiet  twilight 
colors  already:  the  close  of  day  had  come. 

The  moment  she  moved  the  chair  she  felt  her 
mother’s  hand  on  her  shoulder.  When  she  turned 
again  toward  the  bed,  she  saw  her  mother’s  eyes 
open  and  looking  at  her — looking  at  her,  as  she 
thought,  with  a change  in  their  expression,  a 
change  to  vacancy. 

“Why  do  1 talk  of  heaven?”  she  said,  turn- 


THE  BEAD  SECRET. 


523 


ing  her  face  suddenly  toward  the  darkening  sky, 
and  speaking  in  low,  muttering  tones.  4 6 How 
do  I know  1 am  fit  to  go  there?  And  yet,  Rosa- 
mond, I am  not  guilty  of  breaking  my  oath  to 
my  mistress.  You  can  say  for  me  that  I never 
destroyed  the  letter,  and  that  I never  took  it 
away  with  me  when  I left  the  house.  1 tried  to 
get  it  out  of  the  Myrtle  Room ; but  I only  wanted 
to  hide  it  somewhere  else.  I never  thought  to 
take  it  away  from  the  house:  I never  meant  to 
break  my  oath.” 

4 4 It  will  be  dark  soon,  mother.  Let  me  get  up 
for  one  moment  to  light  the  candles.” 

Her  hand  crept  softly  upward,  and  clung  fast 
round  Rosamond’s  neck. 

44I  never  swore  to  give  him  the  letter, ” she 
said.  “There  was  no  crime  in  the  hiding  of  it. 
You  found  it  in  a picture,  Rosamond?  They 
used  to  call  it  a picture  of  the  Porthgenna  ghost. 
Nobody  knew  how  old  it  was,  or  when  it  came 
into  the  house.  My  mistress  hated  it,  because 
the  painted  face  had  a strange  likeness  to  hers. 
She  told  me,  when  first  I lived  at  Porthgenna, 
to  take  it  down  from  the  wall  and  destroy  it. 
I was  afraid  to  do  that;  so  I hid  it  away,  before 
ever  you  were  born,  in  the  Myrtle  Room.  You 
found  the  letter  at  the  back  of  the  picture,  Rosa- 
mond? And  yet  that  was  a likely  place  to  hide 
it  in.  Nobody  had  ever  found  the  picture.  Why 
should  anybody  find  the  letter  that  was  hid  in 
it?” 

44 Let  me  get  a light,  mother!  I am  sure  you 
would  like  to  h?ve  a light!” 


524 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“No!  no  light  now.  Giv~e  the  darkness  time 
to  gather  down  there  in  the  corner  of  the  room. 
Lift  me  up  close  to  you,  and  let  me  whisper.” 
The  clinging  arm  tightened  its  grasp  as  Rosa- 
mond raised  her  in  the  bed.  The  fading  light 
from  the  window  fell  full  on  her  face,  and  was 
reflected  dimly  in  her  vacant  eyes. 

“I  am  waiting  for  something  that  comes  at 
dusk,  before  the  candles  are  lighted,”  she  whis- 
pered, in  low,  breathless  tones.  “My  mistress! 
— down  there!”  And  she  pointed  away  to  the 
furthest  corner  of  the  room  near  the  door. 

“Mother!  for  God’s  sake,  what  is  it!  what  has 
changed  you  so?” 

“That’s  right!  say  ‘mother.’  If  she  does 
come , she  can’t  stop  when  she  hears  you  call 
me ‘mother,’  when  she  sees  us  together  at  last, 
loving  and  knowing  each  other  in  spite  of  her. 
Oh,  my  kind,  tender,  pitying  child!  if  you  can 
only  deliver  me  from  her,  how  long  may  I live 
yet! — how  happy  we  may  both  be!” 

“Don’t  talk  so ! don’t  look  so ! Tell  me  quietly 
— dear,  dear  mother,  tell  me  quietly.” 

“Hush!  hush!  1 am  going  to  tell  you.  She 
threatened  me  on  her  death- bed,  if  I thwarted 
her — she  said  she  would  come  to  me  from  the 
other  world.  Rosamond!  I have  thwarted  her 
and  she  has  kept  her  promise — all  my  life  since, 
she  has  kept  her  promise ! Look ! Down  there !” 
Her  left  arm  was  still  clasped  round  Rosa- 
mond’s neck.  She  stretched  her  right  arm  out 
toward  the  far  corner  of  the  room,  and  shook  her 
hand  slowly  at  the  empty  air. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


525 


“Look!”  she  said.  “There  she  is  as  she  always 
comes  to  me  at  the  close  of  day — with  the  coarse, 
black  dress  on,  that  my  guilty  hands  made  for 
her — with  the  smile  that  there  was  on  her  face 
when  she  asked  me  if  she  looked  like  a servant. 
Mistress ! mistress ! Oh,  rest  at  last ! the  Secret 
is  ours  no  longer!  Rest  at  last!  my  child  is  my 
own  again!  Rest,  at  last;  and  come  between  us 
no  more!” 

She  ceased,  panting  for  breath;  and  laid  her 
hot,  throbbing  cheek  against  the  cheek  of  her 
daughter.  “Call  me  ‘mother’  again!”  she  whis- 
pered. “Say  it  loud;  and  send  her  away  from 
me  forever!” 

Rosamond  mastered  the  terror  that  shook  her 
in  every  limb,  and  pronounced  the  word. 

Her  mother  leaned  forward  a little,  still  gasp- 
ing heavily  for  breath,  and  looked  with  strain- 
ing eyes  into  the  quiet  twilight  dimness  at  the 
lower  end  of  the  room. 

“Gone!!!”  she  cried  suddenly,  with  a scream 
of  exultation.  “Oh,  merciful,  merciful  God! 
gone  at  last !” 

The  next  instant  she  sprang  up  on  her  knees  in 
the  bed.  For  one  awful  moment  her  eyes  shone 
in  the  gray  twilight  with  a radiant,  unearthly 
beauty,  as  they  fastened  their  last  look  of  fond- 
ness on  her  daughter’s  face.  “Oh,  my  love!  my 
angel!”  she  murmured,  “how  happy  we  shall  be 
together  now!”  As  she  said  the  words,  she 
twined  her  arms  round  Rosamond’s  neck,  and 
pressed  her  lips  rapturously  on  the  lips  of  her 
child. 


526 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


The  kiss  lingered  till  her  head  sank  forward 
gently  on  Rosamond’s  bosom — lingered,  till  the 
time  of  God’s  mercy  came,  and  the  weary  heart 
rested  at  last. 


CHAPTER  V. 

FORTY  THOUSAND  POUNDS. 

No  popular  saying  is  more  commonly  accepted 
than  the  maxim  which  asserts  that  Time  is  the 
great  consoler;  and,  probably,  no  popular  saying 
more  imperfectly  expresses  the  truth.  The  work 
that  we  must  do,  the  responsibilities  that  we 
must  undertake,  the  example  that  we  must  set 
to  others — these  are  the  great  consolers,  for  these 
apply  the  first  remedies  to  the  malady  of  grief. 
Time  possesses  nothing  but  the  negative  virtue 
of  helping  it  to  wear  itself  out.  Who  that  has 
observed  at  all,  has  not  perceived  that  those 
among  us  who  soonest  recover  from  the  shock  of 
a great  grief  for  the  dead  are  those  who  have  the 
most  duties  to  perform  toward  the  living?  When 
the  shadow  of  calamity  rests  on  our  houses,  the 
question  with  us  is  not  how  much  time  will 
suffice  to  bring  back  the  sunshine  to  us  again, 
but  how  much  occupation  have  we  got  to  force 
us  forward  into  the  place  where  the  sunshine  is 
waiting  for  us  to  come?  Time  may  claim  many 
victories,  but  not  the  victory  over  grief.  The 
great  consolation  for  the  loss  of  the  dead  who 
are  gone  is  to  be  found  in  the  great  necessity  of 
thinking  of  the  living  who  remain. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


527 


The  history  of  Rosamond’s  daily  life,  now 
that  the  darkness  of  a heavy  affliction  had  fallen 
on  it,  was  in  itself  the  sufficient  illustration  of 
this  truth.  It  was  not  the  slow  lapse  of  time 
that  helped  to  raise  her  up  again,  but  the  neces- 
sity which,  would  not  wait  for  time — the  neces- 
sity which  made  her  remember  what  was  due  to 
ths  husband  who  sorrowed  with  her,  to  the  child 
whose  young  life  was  linked  to  hers,  and  to  the 
old  man  whose  helpless  grief  found  no  support 
but  in  the  comfort  she  could  give,  learned  no  les- 
son of  resignation  but  from  the  example  she  could 
set. 

From  the  first  the  responsibility  of  sustaining 
him  had  rested  on  her  shoulders  alone.  Before 
the  close  of  day  had  been  counted  out,  by  the  first 
hour  of  the  night,  she  had  been  torn  from  the 
bedside  by  the  necessity  of  meeting  him  at  the 
door,  and  preparing  him  to  know  that  he  was 
entering  the  chamber  of  death.  To  guide  the 
dreadful  truth  gradually  and  gently,  till  it  stood 
face  to  face  with  him,  to  support  him  under  the 
shock  of  recognizing  it,  to  help  his  mind  to  re- 
cover after  the  inevitable  blow  had  struck  it  at 
last — these  were  the  sacred  duties  which  claimed 
all  the  devotion  that  Rosamond  had  to  give,  and 
which  forbade  her  heart,  for  his  sake,  to  dwell 
selfishly  on  its  own  grief. 

He  looked  like  a man  whose  faculties  had  been 
stunned  past  recovery.  He  would  sit  for  hours 
with  the  musical  box  by  his  side,  patting  it  ab- 
sently from  time  to  time,  and  whispering  to 
himself,  as  he  looked  at  it,  but  never  attempting 


528 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


to  set  it  playing.  It  Was  the  one  memorial  left 
that  reminded  him  of  all  the  joys  and  sorrows, 
the  simple  family  interests  and  affections  of  his 
past  life.  When  Rosamond  first  sat  by  his  side 
and  took  his  hand  to  comfort  him,  he  looked 
backward  and  forward  with  forlorn  eyes  from 
her  compassionate  face  to  the  musical  box,  and 
vacantly  repeated  to  himself  the  same  words  over 
and  over  again:  “They  are  all  gone — my  brother 
Max,  my  wife,  my  little  Joseph,  my  sister  Aga- 
tha, and  Sarah,  my  niece!  I and  my  little  bit 
of  box  are  left  alone  together  in  the  world.  Mo- 
zart can  sing  no  more.  He  has  sung  to  the  last 
of  them  now!” 

The  second  day  there  was  no  change  in  him. 
On  the  third,  Rosamond  placed  the  book  of 
Hymns  reverently  on  her  mother’s  bosom,  laid  a 
lock  of  her  own  hair  round  it,  and  kissed  the  sad, 
peaceful  face  for  the  last  time. 

The  old  man  was  with  her  at  that  silent  leave- 
taking,  and  followed  her  away  when  it  was  over. 
By  the  side  of  the  coffin,  and  afterward,  when 
she  took  him  back  with  her  to  her  husband,  he 
was  still  sunk  in  the  same  apathy  of  grief  which 
had  overwhelmed  him  from  the  first.  But  when 
they  began  to  speak  of  the  removal  of  the  re- 
mains the  next  day  to  Porthgenna  churchyard, 
they  noticed  that  his  dim  eyes  brightened  sud- 
denly, and  that  his  wandering  attention  followed 
every  word  they  said.  After  a while  he  rose 
from  his  chair,  approached  Rosamond,  and 
looked  anxiously  in  her  face.  “I  think  I could 
bear  it  better  if  you  would  let  me  go  with  her,” 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


529 


he  said.  “We  two  should  have  gone  back  to 
Cornwall  together,  if  she  had  lived.  Will  you 
let  us  still  go  back  together  now  that  she  has 
died?” 

Rosamond  gently  remonstrated,  and  tried  to 
make  him  see  that  it  was  best  to  leave  the  re- 
mains to  be  removed  under  the  charge  of  her  hus- 
band’s servant,  whose  fidelity  could  be  depended 
on,  and  whose  position  made  him  the  fittest  per- 
son to  be  charged  with  cares  and  responsibilities 
which  near  relations  were  not  capable  of  under- 
taking with  sufficient  composure.  She  told  him 
that  her  husband  intended  to  stop  in  London,  to 
give  her  one  day  of  rest  and  quiet,  which  she  ab- 
solutely needed,  and  that  they  then  proposed  to 
return  to  Cornwall  in  time  to  be  at  Porthgenna 
before  the  funeral  took  place;  and  she  begged 
earnestly  that  he  would  not  think  of  separating 
his  lot  from  theirs  at  a time  of  trouble  and  trial 
when  they  ought  to  be  all  three  most  closely 
united  by  the  ties  of  mutual  sympathy  and  mut- 
ual sorrow. 

He  listened  silently  and  submissively  while 
Rosamond  was  speaking,  but  he  only  repeated 
his  simple  petition  when  she  had  done.  The  one 
idea  in  his  mind  now  was  the  idea  of  going  back 
to  Cornwall  with  all  that  was  left  on  earth  of 
his  sister’s  child.  Leonard  and  Rosamond  both 
saw  that  it  would  be  useless  to  oppose  it,  both 
felt  that  it  would  be  cruelty  to  keep  him  with 
them,  and  kindness  to  let  him  go  away.  After 
privately  charging  the  servant  to  spare  him  all 
trouble  and  difficulty,  to  humor  him  by  acceding 


530 


WORKS  OP  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


to  any  wishes  that  he  might  express,  and  to  give 
him  all  possible  protection  and  help  without  ob- 
truding either  officiously  on  his  attention,  they  ' 
left  him  free  to  follow  the  one  purpose  of  his 
heart  which  still  connected  him  with  the  inter- 
ests and  events  of  the  passing  day.  “I  shall 
thank  you  better  soon,”  he  said  at  leave-taking, 
“for  letting  me  go  away  out  of  this  din  of  Lon- 
don with  all  that  is  left  to  me  of  Sarah,  my  niece. 

I will  dry  up  my  tears  as  well  as  I can,  and  try 
to  have  more  courage  when  we  meet  again.” 

On  the  next  day,  when  they  were  alone,  Rosa- 
mond and  her  husband  sought  refuge  from  the 
oppression  cf  the  present  in  speaking  together  of 
the  future,  and  of  the  influence  which  the  change 
in  their  fortunes  ought  to  be  allowed  to  exercise 
on  their  plans  and  projects  for  the  time  to  come. 
After  exhausting  this  topic,  the  conversation 
turned  next  on  the  subject  of  their  friends,  and 
on  the  necessity  of  communicating  to  some  of 
the  oldest  of  their  associates  the  events  which 
.had  followed  the  discovery  in  the  Myrtle  Room. 

The  first  name  on  their  lips  while  they  were 
considering  this  question  was  the  name  of  Doc 
tor  Chennery;  and  Rosamond,  dreading  the 
effect  on  her  spirits  of  allowing  her  mind  to 
remain  unoccupied,  volunteered  to  write  to  the 
vicar  at  once,  referring  briefly  to  what  had  hap- 
pened since  they  had  last  communicated  with 
him,  and  asking  him  to  fulfill  that  year  an  en- 
gagement of  long  standing,  which  he  had  made 
with  her  husband  and  herself,  to  spend  his  au- 
tumn holiday  with  them  at  Porthgenna  Tower, 


the  Head  secret. 


531 


Rosamond’s  heart  yearned  for  a sight  of  her  old 
friend;  and  she  knew  him  well  enough  to  be  as- 
sured that  a hint  at  the  affliction  which  had  be- 
fallen her,  and  at  the  hard  trial  which  she  had 
undergone,  would  be  more  than  enough  to  bring 
them  together  the  moment  Doctor  Chennery 
could  make  his  arrangements  for  leaving  home. 

The  writing  of  this  letter  suggested  recollec- 
tions which  called  to  mind  another  friend,  whose 
intimacy  with  Leonard  and  Rosamond  was  of 
recent  date,  but  whose  connection  with  the  ear- 
lier among  the  train  of  circumstances  which  had 
led  to  the  discovery  of  the  Secret  entitled  him  to 
a certain  share  in  their  confidence.  This  friend 
was  Mr.  Orridge,  the  doctor  at  West  Winston, 
who  had  accidentally  been  the  means  of  bringing 
Rosamond’s  mother  to  her  bedside.  To  him  she 
now  wrote,  acknowledging  the  promise  which 
she  had  made  on  leaving  West  Winston  to  com- 
municate the  result  of  their  search  for  the  Myr- 
tle Room;  and  informing  him  that  it  had  ter- 
minated in  the  discovery  of  some  very  sad  events, 
of  a family  nature,  which  were  now  numbered 
with  the  events  of  the  past.  More  than  this  it 
was  not  necessary  to  say  to  a friend  who  occu- 
pied such  a position  toward  them  as  that  held 
by  Mr.  Orridge. 

Rosamond  had  written  the  address  of  this  sec- 
ond letter4,  and  was  absently  drawing  lines  on 
the  blotting-paper  with  her  pen,  when  she  was 
startled  by  hearing  a contention  of  angry  voices 
in  the  passage  outside.  Almost  before  she  had 
time  to  wonder  what  the  noise  meant,  the  door 


532 


WORKS  OF  WILKfE  COLLINS, 


was  violently  pushed  open,  and  a tall,  shabbily 
dressed,  elderly  man,  with  a peevish  haggard 
face,  and  a ragged  gray  beard,  stalked  in,  fol- 
lowed indignantly  by  the  head  waiter  of  the 
hotel. 

“I  have  three  times  told  this  person,”  began 
the  waiter,  with  a strong  emphasis  on  the  word 
4 ‘person,”  “that  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland — ” 

“Were  not  at  home,”  broke  in  the  shabbily 
dressed  man,  finishing  the  sentence  for  the 
waiter.  “Yes,  you  told  me  that;  and  I told 
you  that  the  gift  of  speech  was  only  used  by 
mankind  for  the  purpose  of  telling  lies,  and  that 
consequently  I didn’t  believe  you.  You  have 
told  a lie.  Here  are  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland 
both  at  home.  I come  on  business,  and  I mean 
to  ha ^e  five  minutes’  talk  with  them.  I sit 
down  unasked,  and  I announce  my  own  name — 
Andrew  Treverton.” 

With  those  words,  he  took  his  seat  coolly  on 
the  nearest  chair.  Leonard’s  cheeks  reddened 
with  anger  while  he  was  speaking,  but  Rosamond 
interposed  before  her  husband  could  say  a word. 

“It  is  useless,  love,  to  be  angry  with  him,” 
she  whispered.  “The  quiet  way  is  the  best  way 
with  a man  like  that.”  She  made  a sign  to  the 
waiter,  which  gave  him  permission  to  leave  the 
room — then  turned  to  Mr.  Treverton.  “You 
have  forced  your  presence  on  us,  sir,”  she  said 
quietly,  “at  a time  when  a very  sad  affliction 
makes  us  quite  unfit  for  contentions  of  any  kind. 
We  are  willing  to  show  more  consideration  for 
your  age  than  you  have  shown  for  our  grief.  If 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


533 


you  have  anything  to  say  to  my  husband,  he  is 
ready  to  control  himself  and  to  hear  you  quietly, 
for  my  sake.” 

“And  I shall  be  short  with  him  and  with  you, 
for  my  own  sake,”  rejoined  Mr.  Treverton. 
“No  woman  has  ever  yet  had  the  chance  of 
sharpening  her  tongue  long  on  me,  or  ever  shall. 
I have  come  here  to  say  three  things.  First, 
your  lawyer  has  told  me  all  about  the  discovery 
in  the  Myrtle  Room,  and  how  you  made  it. 
Secondly,  I have  got  your  money.  Thirdly,  I 
mean  to  keep  it.  What  do  you  think  of  that?” 

“I  think  you  need  not  give  yourself  the  trouble 
of  remaining  in  the  room  any  longer,  if  your  only 
object  in  coming  here  is  to  tell  us  what  we  know 
already,”  replied  Leonard.  “We  know  you  have 
got  the  money;  and  we  never  doubted  that  you 
meant  to  keep  it.” 

“You  are  quite  sure  of  that,  I suppose?”  said 
Mr.  Treverton.  “Quite  sure  you  have  no  linger- 
ing hope  that  any  future  twists  and  turns  of  the 
law  will  take  the  money  out  of  my  pocket  again 
and  put  it  back  into  yours?  It  is  only  fair  to 
tell  you  that  there  is  not  the  shadow  of  a chance 
of  any  such  thing  ever  happening,  or  of  my  ever 
turning  generous  and  rewarding  you  of  my  own 
accord  for  the  sacrifice  you  have  made.  I have 
been  to  Doctors’  Commons,  I hav'e  taken  out  a 
grant  of  administration,  I have  got  the  money 
legally,  I have  lodged  it  safe  at  my  banker’s, 
and  I have  never  had  one  kind  feeling  in  my 
heart  since  I was  born.  That  was  my  brother’s 
character  of  me,  and  he  knew  more  of  my  dis- 


534 


WORKS  OP  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


position,  of  course,  than  any  one  else.  Once 
again,  I tell  you  both,  not  a farthing  of  all  that 
large  fortune  will  ever  return  to  either  of  you. 55 

“And  once  again  I tell  you”  said  Leonard, 
“that  we  have  no  desire  to  hear  what  we  know 
already.  It  is  a relief  to  my  conscience  and  to 
my  wife’s  to  have  resigned  a fortune  which  we 
had  no  right  to  possess;  and  I speak  for  her  as 
well  as  for  myself  when  I tell  you  that  your  at- 
tempt to  attach  an  interested  motive  to  our  re- 
nunciation of  that  money  is  an  insult  to  us  both 
which  you  ought  to  have  been  ashamed  to  offer.” 
“That  is  your  opinion,  is  it?”  said  Mr.  Trever- 
ton.  “You,  who  have  lost  the  money,  speak  to 
me,  who  have  got  it,  in  that  manner,  do  you? — 
Pray,  do  you  approve  of  your  husband’s  treating 
a rich  man  who  might  make  both  your  fortunes 
in  that  way?”  he  inquired,  addressing  himself 
sharply  to  Rosamond. 

“Most  assuredly  I approve  of  it,”  she  answered. 
“I  never  agreed  with  him  more  heartily  in  my 
life  than  I agree  with  him  now.” 

“Oh!”  said  Mr.  Treverton.  “Then  it  seems 
you  care  no  more  for  the  loss  of  the  money  than 
he  does?” 

“He  has  told  you  already,”  said  Rosamond, 
“that  it  is  as  great  a relief  to  my  conscience  as  to 
his,  to  have  given  it  up.” 

Mr.  Treverton  carefully  placed  a thick  stick 
which  he  carried  with  him  upright  between  his 
knees,  crossed  his  hands  on  the  top  of  it,  rested 
his  chin  on  them,  and,  in  that  investigating  po- 
sition, stared  steadily  in  Rosamond’s  face. 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


535 


44 1 rather  wish  I had  brought  Shrowl  here 
with  me,”  he  said  to  himself.  44I  should  like 
him  to  have  seen  this.  It  staggers  me,  and  I 
rather  think  it  would  have  staggered  him.  Both 
these  people,”  continued  Mr.  Treverton,  look- 
ing perplexedly  from  Rosamond  to  Leonard, 
and  from  Leonard  back  again  to  Rosamond, 
4 4 are,  to  all  outward  appearance,  human  beings. 
They  walk  on  their  hind  legs,  they  express 
ideas  readily  b}r  uttering  articulate  sounds, 
they  have  the  usual  allowance  of  features,  and 
in  respect  of  weight,  height,  and  size,  they  ap- 
pear to  me  to  be  mere  average  human  creatures 
of  the  regular  civilized  sort.  And  yet,  there  they 
sit,  taking  the  loss  of  a fortune  of  forty  thousand 
pounds  as  easily  as  Croesus,  King  of  Lydia, 
might  have  taken  the  loss  of  a half-penny!” 

He  rose,  put  on  his  hat,  tucked  the  thick  stick 
under  his  arm,  and  advanced  a few  steps  toward 
Rosamond. 

44 1 am  going  now,”  he  said.  4 4 Would  you  like 
to  shake  hands?” 

Rosamond  turned  her  back  on  him  contemptu- 
ously. 

Mr.  Treverton  chuckled  with  an  air  of  supreme 
satisfaction. 

Meanwhile  Leonard,  who  sat  near  the  fire- 
place, and  whose  color  was  rising  angrily  once 
more,  had  been  feeling  for  the  bell-rope,  and  had 
just  succeeded  in  getting  it  into  his  hand  as  Mr. 
Treverton  approached  the  door. 

4 ‘Don’t  ring,  Lenny,”  said  Rosamond.  4 4 He 
is  going  of  his  own  accord.5' 


536 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


Mr.  Treverton  stepped  out  into  the  passage — 
then  glanced  back  into  the  room  with  an  expres- 
sion of  puzzled  curiosity  on  his  face,  as  if  he  was 
looking  into  a cage  which  contained  two  animals 
of  a species  that  he  had  never  heard  of  before. 
“I  have  seen  some  strange  sights  in  my  time,” 
he  said  to  himself.  “I  have  had  some  queer  ex- 
perience of  this  trumpery  little  planet,  and  of  the 
creatures  who  inhabit  it — but  I never  was  stag- 
gered yet  by  any  human  phenomenon  as  I am 
staggered  now  by  those  two.”  He  shut  the  door 
without  saying  another  word,  and  Rosamond 
heard  him  chuckle  to  himself  again  as  he  walked 
away  along  the  passage. 

Ten  minutes  afterward  the  waiter  brought  up 
a sealed  letter  addressed  to  Mrs.  Frankland.  It 
had  been  written,  he  said,  in  the  coffee-room  of 
the  hotel  by  the  “person”  who  had  intruded 
himself  into  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland’s  presence. 
After  giving  it  to  the  waiter  to  deliver,  he  had 
gone  away  in  a hurry,  swinging  his  thick  stick 
complacently,  and  laughing  to  himself. 

Rosamond  opened  the  letter. 

On  one  side  of  it  was  a crossed  check,  drawn 
in  her  name,  for  Forty  Thousand  Pounds. 

On  the  other  side  were  these  lines  of  explana- 
tion: 

“Take  your  money  back  again.  First,  because 
you  and  your  husband  are  the  only  two  people  I 
have  ever  met  with  who  are  not  likely  to  be 
made  rascals  by  being  made  rich.  Secondly, 
because  you  have  told  the  truth,  when  letting  it 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


537 


out  meant  losing  money,  and  keeping  it  in,  sav- 
ing a fortune.  Thirdly,  because  you  are  not  the 
child  of  the  player- woman.  Fourthly,  because 
you  can’t  help  yourself — for  I shall  leave  it  to 
you  at  my  death,  if  you  won’t  have  it  now. 
Good-by.  Don’t  come  and  see  me,  don’t  write 
grateful  letters  to  me,  don’t  invite  me  into  the 
country,  don’t  praise  my  generosity,  and,  above 
all  things,  don’t  have  anything  more  to  do  with 
Shrowl.  Andrew  Treverton.” 

The  first  thing  Rosamond  did,  when  she  and 
her  husband  had  a little  recovered  from  their  as- 
tonishment, was  to  disobey  the  injunction  which 
forbade  her  to  address  any  grateful  letters  to  Mr. 
Treverton.  The  messenger,  who  was  sent  with 
her  note  to  Bays  water,  returned  without  an  an- 
swer, and  reported  that  he  had  received  direc- 
tions from  an  invisible  man,  with  a gruff  voice, 
to  throw  it  over  the  garden  wall,  and  to  go  away 
immediately  after,  unless  he  wanted  to  have  his 
head  broken. 

Mr.  Nixon,  to  whom  Leonard  immediately 
sent  word  of  what  had  happened,  volunteered 
to  go  to  Bayswater  the  same  evening,  and  make 
an  attempt  to  see  Mr.  Treverton  on  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Frankland’s  behalf.  He  found  Timon  of  Lon- 
don more  approachable  than  he  had  anticipated. 
The  misanthrope  was,  for  once  in  his  life,  in  a 
good  humor.  This  extraordinary  change  in  him 
had  been  produced  by  the  sense  of  satisfaction 
which  he  experienced  in  having  just  turned 
Shrowl  out  of  his  situation,  on  the  ground  that 


538 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


his  master  was  not  fit  company  for  him  after 
having  committed  such  an  act  of  folly  as  giving 
Mrs.  Frankland  back  her  forty  thousand  pounds. 

“I  told  him,”  said  Mr.  Treverton,  chuckling 
over  his  recollection  of  the  parting  scene  between 
his  servant  and  himself — “I  told  him  that  1 
could  not  possibly  expect  to  merit  his  continued 
approval  after  what  I had  done,  and  that  I could 
not  think  of  detaining  him  in  his  place  under 
the  circumstances.  I begged  him  to  view  my 
conduct  as  leniently  as  he  could,  because  the  first 
cause  that  led  to  it  was,  after  all,  his  copying  the 
plan  of  Porthgenna,  which  guided  Mrs.  Frank- 
land to  the  discovery  in  the  Myrtle  Room.  I 
congratulated  him  on  having  got  a reward  of 
five  pounds  for  being  the  means  of  restoring  a 
fortune  of  forty  thousand;  and  I bowed  him  out 
with  a polite  humility  that  half  drove  him  mad. 
Shrowl  and  I have  had  a good  many  tussles  in 
our  time;  he  was  always  even  with  me  till  to- 
day, and  now  I’ve  thrown  him  on  his  back  at 
last!” 

Although  Mr.  Treverton  was  willing  to  talk 
of  the  defeat  and  dismissal  of  Shrowl  as  long  as 
the  lawyer  would  listen  to  him,  he  was  perfectly 
unmanageable  on  the  subject  of  Mrs  Frankland, 
when  Mr.  Nixon  tried  to  turn  the  conversation 
to  that  topic.  He  would  hear  no  messages — he 
would  give  no  promise  of  any  sort  for  the  future. 
All  that  he  could  be  prevailed  on  to  say  about 
himself  and  his  own  projects  was  that  he  in- 
tended to  give  up  the  house  at  Bayswater,  and  to 
travel  again  for  the  purpose  of  studying  human 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


539 


nature,  in  different  countries,  on  a plan  that  he 
had  not  tried  yet — the  plan  of  endeavoring  to  find 
out  the  good  that  there  might  be  in  people  as  well 
as  the  bad.  He  said  the  idea  had  been  suggested 
to  his  mind  by  his  anxiety  to  ascertain  whether 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Frankland  were  perfectly  excep- 
tional human  beings  or  not,  At  present,  he  was 
disposed  to  think  that  they  were,  and  that  his 
travels  were  not  likely  to  lead  to  anything  at  all 
remarkable  in  the  shape  of  a satisfactory  result. 
Mr.  Nixon  pleaded  hard  for  something  in  the 
shape  of  a friendly  message  to  take  back,  along 
with  the  news  of  his  intended  departure.  The 
request  produced  nothing  but  a sardonic  chuckle, 
followed  by  this  parting  speech,  delivered  to  the 
lawyer  at  the  garden  gate, 

“Tell  those  two  superhuman  people,”  said 
Timon  of  London,  “that  I may  give  up  my  trav- 
els in  disgust  when  they  least  expect  it;  and  that 
I may  possibly  come  back  to  look  at  them  again 
— I don’t  personally  care  about  either  of  them  — 
but  I should  like  to  get  one  satisfactory  sensation 
more  out  of  the  lamentable  spectacle  of  humanity 
before  I die.” 


540 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  DAWN  OF  A NEW  LIFE. 

Four  days  afterward,  Rosamond  and  Leonard 
and  Uncle  Joseph  met  together  in  the  cemetery  of 
the  church  of  Porthgenua. 

The  earth  to  which  we  all  return  had  closed 
over  Her : the  weary  pilgrimage  of  Sarah  Leeson 
had  come  to  its  quiet  end  at  last.  The  miner’s 
grave  from  which  she  had  twice  plucked  in  secret 
her  few  memorial  fragments  of  grass  had  given 
her  the  home,  in  death,  which,  in  life,  she  had 
never  known.  The  roar  of  the  surf  was  stilled 
to  a low  murmur  before  it  reached  the  place  of 
her  rest;  and  the  wind  that  swept  joyously  over 
the  open  moor  paused  a little  when  it  met  the 
old  trees  that  watched  over  the  graves,  and 
wound  onward  softly  through  the  myrtle  hedge 
which  held  them  all  embraced  alike  in  its  circle 
of  lustrous  green. 

Some  hours  had  passed  since  the  last  words  of 
the  burial  service  had  been  read.  The  fresh  turf 
was  heaped  already  over  the  mound,  and  the  old 
headstone  with  the  miner’s  epitaph  on  it  had 
been  raised  once  more  in  its  former  place  at  the 
head  of  the  grave.  Rosamond  was  reading  the 
inscription  softly  to  her  husband.  Uncle  Joseph 
had  walked  a little  apart  from  them  while  she 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


541 


was  thus  engaged,  and  had  knelt  down  by  him- 
self at  the  foot  of  the  mound.  He  was  fondly 
smoothing  and  patting  the  newly  laid  turf — as 
he  had  often  smoothed  Sarah’s  hair  in  the  long 
past  days  of  her  youth — as  he  had  often  patted 
her  hand  in  the  after-time,  when  her  heart  was 
weary  and  her  hair  was  gray. 

‘ 6 Shall  we  add  any  new  words  to  the  old,  worn 
letters  as  they  stand  now?”  said  Rosamond, 
when  she  had  read  the  inscription  to  the  end. 
“There  is  a blank  space  left  on  the  stone.  Shall 
we  fill  it,  love,  with  the  initials  of  my  mother’s 
name,  and  the  date  of  her  death?  I feel  some- 
thing in  my  heart  which  seems  to  tell  me  to  do 
that,  and  to  do  no  more.” 

“So  let  it  be,  Rosamond,”  said  her  husband. 
“That  short  and  simple  inscription  is  the  fittest 
and  the  best.” 

She  looked  away,  as  he  gave  that  answer,  to 
the  foot  of  the  grave,  and  left  him  for  a moment 
to  approach  the  old  man.  “Take  my  hand, 
Uncle  Joseph,”  she  said,  and  touched  him  gently 
on  the  shoulder.  “Take  my  hand  and  let  us  go 
back  together  to  the  house.” 

He  rose  as  she  spoke  and  looked  at  her  doubt- 
fully. The  musical  box  inclosed  in  its  well-worn 
leather  case  lay  on  the  grave  near  the  place  where 
he  had  been  kneeling.  Rosamond  took  it  up 
from  the  grass  and  slung  it  in  the  old  place  at 
his  side  which  it  had  always  occupied  when  he 
*vas  away  from  home.  He  sighed  a little  as  he 
thanked  her.  “Mozart  can  sing  no  more,”  he 
said.  “He  has  sung  to  the  last  of  them  now!” 


542 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


“ Don’t  say  ‘to  the  last,’  yet,”  said  Rosamond 
— “don’t  say  ‘to  the  last,’  Uncle  Joseph,  while  I 
am  alive.  Surely  Mozart  will  sing  to  me,  for 
my  mother’s  sake?” 

A smile — the  first  she  had  seen  since  the  time 
of  their  grief— trembled  faintly  round  his  lips. 
“There  is  comfort  in  that,”  he  said;  “there  is 
comfort  for  Uncle  Joseph  still,  in  hearing  that.” 

“Take  my  hand,”  she  repeated  softly.  “Come 
home  with  us  now.” 

He  looked  down  wistfully  at  the  grave.  “I 
will  follow  you,”  he  said,  “if  you  will  go  on 
before  me  to  the  gate.” 

Rosamond  took  her  husband’s  arm,  and  guided 
him  to  the  path  that  led  out  of  the  churchyard. 
As  they  passed  from  sight,  Uncle  Joseph  knelt 
down  once  more  at  the  foot  of  the  grave,  and 
pressed  his  lips  on  the  fresh  turf. 

“Good-by,  my  child,”  he  whispered,  and  laid 
his  cheek  for  a moment  against  the  grass  before 
he  rose  again. 

At  the  gate,  Rosamond  was  waiting  for  him. 
Her  right  hand  was  resting  on  her  husband’s 
arm;  her  left  hand  was  held  out  for  Uncle  Joseph 
to  take. 

“How  cool  the  breeze  is!”  said  Leonard. 
“How  pleasantly  the  sea  sounds!  Surely  this 
is  a fine  summer  day!” 

“The  calmest  and  loveliest  of  the  year,”  said 
Rosamond.  “The  only  clouds  on  the  sky  are 
clouds  of  shining  white;  the  only  shadows  over 
the  moor  lie  light  as  down  on  the  heather.  Oh, 
Lenny,  it  is  such  a different  day  from  that  day 


THE  DEAD  SECRET. 


543 


of  dull  oppression  and  misty  heat  when  we  found 
the  letter  in  the  Myrtle  Room!  Even  the  dark 
tower  of  our  old  house,  yonder,  looks  its  bright- 
est and  best,  as  if  it  waited  to  welcome  us  to  the 
beginning  of  a new  life.  I will  make  it  a happy 
life  to  you,  and  to  Uncle  Joseph,  if  I can — happy 
as  the  sunshine  we  are  walking  in  now.  You 
shall  never  repent,  love,  if  I can  help  it,  that 
you  have  married  a wife  who  has  no  claim  of 
her  own  to  the  honors  of  a family  name.” 

“I  can  never  repent  my  marriage,  Rosamond, 
because  I can  never  forget  the  lesson  that  my 
wife  has  taught  me.” 

44 What  lesson,  Lenny?” 

44  An  old  one,  my  dear,  which  some  of  us  can 
never  learn  too  often.  The  highest  honors,  Rosa- 
mond, are  those  which  no  accident  can  take 
away — the  honors  that  are  conferred  by  Love 
and  Truth.” 


END  OF  44THE  DEAD  SECRET.” 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE 
YANKEE. 


[preliminary  statements  of  witnesses  for 

THE  DEFENSE,  COLLECTED  AT  THE  OFFICE 
OF  THE  SOLICITOR.] 


No.  1. — Miss  Bertha  Laroche , of  Nettlegrove 
Hall , testifies  and  says:— 

I. 

Toward  the  middle  of  June,  in  the  year 
1817,  I went  to  take  the  waters  at  Maples  worth, 
in  Derbyshire,  accompanied  by  my  nearest  rela- 
tive— my  aunt. 

I am  an  only  child ; and  I was  twenty-one  years 
old  at  my  last  birthday.  On  coming  cf  age  I in- 
herited a house  and  lands  in  Derbyshire,  together 
with  a fortune  in  money  of  one  hundred  thousand 
pounds.  The  only  education  which  I have  re- 
ceived has  been  obtained  within  the  last  two  or 
three  years  of  my  life;  and  I have  thus  far  seen 
nothing  of  Society,  in  England  or  in  any  other 
civilized  part  of  the  world.  I can  be  a compe- 
tent witness,  it  seems,  in  spite  of  these  disadvan- 
tages. Anyhow,  I mean  to  tell  the  truth. 

R— Yol.  16  (545) 


546 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


My  father  was  a French  colonist  in  the  island 
of  Saint  Domingo,  He  died  while  I was  very 
young;  leaving  to  my  mother  and  to  me  just 
enough  to  live  on,  in  the  remote  part  of  the  isl- 
and in  which  our  little  property  was  situated. 
My  mother  was  an  Englishwoman.  Her  deli- 
cate health  made  it  necessary  for  her  to  leave 
me,  for  many  hours  of  the  day,  under  the  care  of 
our  household  slaves.  I can  never  forget  their 
kindness  to  me;  but,  unfortunately,  their  igno- 
rance equaled  their  kindness.  If  we  had  been 
rich  enough  to  send  to  France  or  England  for  a 
competent  governess  we  might  have  done  very 
well.  But  we  were  not  rich  enough.  I am 
ashamed  to  say  that  I was  nearly  thirteen  years 
old  before  I had  learned  to  read  and  write  cor- 
rectly. 

Four  more  years  passed — and  then  there  came 
a wonderful  event  in  our  lives,  which  was  noth- 
ing less  than  the  change  from  Saint  Domingo  to 
England. 

My  mother  was  distantly  related  to  an  ancient 
and  wealthy  English  family.  She  seriously  of- 
fended those  proud  people  by  marrying  an  ob- 
scure foreigner,  who  had  nothing  to  live  on  but 
his  morsel  of  land  in  the  West  Indies.  Having 
no  expectations  from  her  relatives,  my  mother 
preferred  happiness  with  the  man  she  loved  to 
every  other  consideration ; and  I,  for  one,  think 
she  was  right.  From  that  moment  she  was  cast 
off  by  the  head  of  the  family.  For  eighteen 
years  of  her  life,  as  wife,  mother,  and  widow, 
no  letters  came  to  her  from  her  English  home. 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE.  547 


We  had  just  celebrated  m3r  seventeenth  birthday 
when  the  first  letter  came.  It  informed  my 
mother  that  no  less  than  three  lives,  which  stood 
between  her  and  the  inheritance  of  certain  por- 
tions of  the  family  property,  had  been  swept 
away  by  death.  The  estate  and  the  fortune 
which  I have  already  mentioned  had  fallen  to 
her  in  due  course  of  law,  and  her  surviving  rel- 
atives were  magnanimously  ready  to  forgive 
her  at  last! 

We  wound  up  our  affairs  at  Saint  Domingo, 
and  we  went  to  England  to  take  possession  of 
our  new  wealth. 

At  first,  the  return  to  her  native  air  seemed  to 
have  a beneficial  effect  on  my  mother’s  health. 
But  it  was  a temporary  improvement  only.  Her 
constitution  had  been  fatally  injured  by  the  West 
Indian  climate,  and  just  as  we  had  engaged  a 
competent  person  to  look  after  my  neglected  edu- 
cation, my  constant  attendance  was  needed  at 
my  mother’s  bedside.  We  loved  each  other 
dearly,  and  we  wanted  no  strange  nurses  to 
come  between  us.  My  aunt  (my  mother’s  sis- 
ter) relieved  me  of  my  cares  in  the  intervals 
when  I wanted  rest. 

For  seven  sad  months  our  dear  sufferer  lin- 
gered. I have  only  one  remembrance  to  comfort 
me;  my  mother’s  last  kiss  was  mine — she  died 
peacefully  with  her  head  on  my  bosom. 

I was  nearly  nineteen  years  old  before  I had' 
sufficiently  rallied  my  courage  to  be  able  to  think 
seriously  of  myself  and  my  prospects. 

At  that  age  one  does  not  willingly  submit  one’s 


548 


YORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


self  for  the  first  time  to  the  authority  of  a gov- 
erness. Having  my  aunt  for  a companion  and 
protectress,  1 proposed  to  engage  my  own  masters 
and  to  superintend  my  own  education. 

My  plans  failed  to  meet  with  the  approval  of 
the  head  of  the  family.  He  declared  (most  un- 
justly, as  the  event  proved)  that  my  aunt  was 
not  a fit  person  to  take  care  of  me.  She  had 
passed  all  the  later  years  of  her  life  in  retire- 
ment. A good  creature,  he  admitted,  in  her  own 
way,  but  she  had  no  knowledge  of  the  world, 
and  no  firmness  of  character.  The  right  person 
to  act  as  my  chaperon,  and  to  superintend  my 
education,  was  the  high  .-minded  and  accom- 
plished woman  who  had  taught  his  own 
daughters. 

I declined,  with  all  needful  gratitude  and  re- 
spect, to  take  his  advice.  The  bare  idea  of  liv- 
ing with  a stranger  so  soon  after  my  mother’s 
death  revolted  me.  Besides,  I liked  my  aunt, 
and  my  aunt  liked  me.  Being  made  acquainted 
with  my  decision,  the  head  of  the  family  cast  me 
off,  exactly  as  he  had  cast  off  my  mother  before 
me. 

So  I lived  in  retirement  with  my  good  aunt, 
and  studied  industriously  to  improve  my  mind 
until  my  twenty  - first  birthday  came.  I was 
now  an  heiress,  privileged  to  think  and  act  for 
myself.  My  aunt  kissed  me  tenderly.  We  talked 
of  my  poor  mother,  and  we  cried  in  each  other’s 
arms  on  the  memorable  day  that  made  a wealthy 
woman  of  me.  In  a little  time  more,  other  troubles 
than  vain  regrets  for  the  dead  were  to  try  me, 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE. 


549 


and  other  tears  were  to  fill  my  eyes  than  the 
tears  which  I had  given  to  the  memory  of  my 
mother. 


II. 

I may  now  return  to  my  visit,  in  June,  1817. 
to  the  healing  springs  at  Maplesworth. 

This  famous  inland  watering-place  was  only 
between  nine  and  ten  miles  from  my  new  home 
called  Nettlegrove  Hall.  I had  been  feeling 
weak  and  out  of  spirits  for  some  months,  and 
our  medical  adviser  recommended  change  of 
scene  and  a trial  of  the  waters  at  Maplesworthc 
My  aunt  and  I established  ourselves  in  comfort- 
able apartments,  with  a letter  of  introduction  to 
the  chief  doctor  in  the  place.  This  otherwise 
harmless  and  worthy  man  proved,  strangely 
enough,  to  be  the  innocent  cause  of  the  trials 
and  troubles  which  beset  me  at  the  outset  of  my 
new  life. 

The  day  after  we  had  presented  our  letter  of 
introduction,  we  met  the  doctor  on  the  public 
walk.  He  was  accompanied  by  two  strangers, 
both  young  men,  and  both  (so  far  as  my  ignorant 
opinion  went)  persons  of  same  distinction,  judg- 
ing by  their  dress  and  manners.  The  doctor  said 
a few  kind  words  to  us,  and  rejoined  his  two 
companions.  Both  the  gentlemen  looked  at  me, 
and  both  took  off  their  hats  as  my  aunt  and  I 
proceeded  on  our  walk. 

I own  I thought  occasionally  of  the  well-bred 
strangers  during  the  rest  of  the  day,  especial!}" 


550 


WOBKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


of  the  shortest  of  the  two,  who  was  also  the  hand- 
somest of  the  two  to  my  thinking.  If  this  con- 
fession seems  rather  a bold  one,  remember,  if  you 
please,  that  I had  never  been  taught  to  conceal 
my  feelings  at  Saint  Domingo,  and  that  the 
events  which  followed  our  arrival  in  England 
had  kept  me  completely  secluded  from  the  society 
of  other  young  ladies  of  my  age. 

The  next  day,  while  I was  drinking  my  glass 
of  healing  water  (extremely  nasty  water,  by  the 
way)  the  doctor  joined  us. 

While  he  was  asking  me  about  my  health,  the 
two  strangers  made  their  appearance  again,  and 
took  off  their  hats  again.  They  both  looked  ex- 
pectantly at  the  doctor,  and  the  doctor  (in  per- 
formance of  a promise  which  he  had  already 
made,  as  I privately  suspected)  formally  intro- 
duced them  to  my  aunt  and  to  me.  First  (I  put 
the  handsomest  man  first)  Captain  Arthur  S tan- 
wick,  of  the  army,  home  from  India  on  leave, 
and  staying  at  Maples  worth  to  take  the  waters; 
secondly,  Mr.  Lionel  Varleigh,  of  Boston,  in 
America,  visiting  England,  after  traveling  all 
over  Europe,  and  stopping  at  Maplesworth  to 
keep  company  with  his  friend  the  Captain. 

On  their  introduction,  the  two  gentlemen,  ob- 
serving, no  doubt,  that  I was  a little  shy,  forbore 
delicately  from  pressing  their  society  on  us. 

Captain  Stan  wick,  with  a beautiful  smile,  and 
with  teeth  worthy  of  the  smile,  stroked  his  whisk- 
ers, and  asked  me  if  I had  found  any  benefit  from 
taking  the  waters.  He  afterward  spoke  in  great 
praise  of  the  charming  scenery  in  the  neighbor- 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE. 


551 


hood  of  Maplesworth,  and  then,  turning  away, 
addressed  his  next  words  to  my  aunt.  Mr.  Var- 
leigh  took  his  place.  Speaking  with  perfect 
gravity,  and  with  no  whiskers  to  stroke,  he 
said: 

“I  have  once  tried  the  waters  here  out  of  curi- 
osity. I can  sympathize,  miss,  with  the  expres- 
sion which  I observed  on  your  face  when  you 
emptied  your  glass  just  now.  Permit  me  to  offer 
you  something  nice  to  take  the  taste  cf  the  waters 
out  of  your  mouth,”  He  produced  from  his 
pocket  a beautiful  little  box  fdled  with  sugar- 
plums. “I  bought  it  in  Paris,”  he  explained. 
“Having  lived  a good  deal  in  Prance,  I have 
got  into  a habit  of  making  little  presents  of  this 
sort  to  ladies  and  children.  I wouldn’t  let  the 
doctor  see  it,  miss,  if  I were  you.  He  has  the 
usual  medical  prejudice  against  sugar- plums.” 
With  that  quaint  warning,  he,  too,  made  his 
bow  and  discreetly  withdrew, 

Thinking  it  over  afterward,  I acknowledged 
to  myself  that  the  English  Captain — although 
he  was  the  handsomest  man  of  the  two,  and  pos- 
sessed the  smoothest  manners — had  failed,  never- 
theless, to  overcome  my  shyness.  The  American 
traveler’s  unaffected  sincerity  and  good-humor, 
on  the  other  hand,  set  me  quite  at  my  ease.  I 
could  look  at  him  and  thank  him,  and  feel  amused 
at  his  sympathy  with  the  grimace  I had  made, 
after  swallowing  the  ill-flavored  waters.  And 
yet,  while  I lay  awake  at  night,  wondering 
whether  we  should  meet  our  new  acquaintances 
on  the  next  day,  it  was  the  English  Captain  that 


552 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


I most  wanted  to  see  again,  and  not  the  Ameri- 
can traveler!  At  the  time,  I set  this  down  to 
nothing  more  important  than  my  own  perversity. 
Ah,  dear!  dear!  I know  better  than  that  now. 

The  next  morning  brought  the  doctor  to  our 
hotel  on  a special  visit  to  my  aunt.  He  invented 
a pretext  for  sending  me  into  the  next  room, 
which  was  so  plainly  a clumsy  excuse  that  my 
curiosity  was  aroused.  I gratified  my  curiosity. 
Must  I make  my  confession  plainer  still?  Must 
I acknowledge  that  I was  mean  enough  to  listen 
on  the  other  side  of  the  door? 

I heard  my  dear  innocent  old  aunt  say:  4 ‘Doc- 
tor! I hope  you  don’t  see  anything  alarming  in 
the  state  of  Bertha’s  health.” 

The  doctor  burst  out  laughing.  “My  dear 
madam!  there  is  nothing  in  the  state  of  the 
young  lady’s  health  which  need  cause  the  small- 
est anxiety  to  you  or  to  me.  The  object  of  my 
visit  is  to  justify  myself  for  presenting  those  two 
gentlemen  to  you  yesterday.  They  are  both 
greatly  struck  by  Miss  Bertha’s  beauty,  and 
they  both  urgently  entreated  me  to  introduce 
them.  Such  introductions,  I need  hardly  say, 
are  marked  exceptions  to  my  general  rule.  In 
ninety-nine  cases  out  of  a hundred  I should  have 
said  No.  In  the  cases  cf  Captain  Stanwick  and 
Mr.  Yarleigh,  however,  I saw  no  reason  to  hesi- 
tate. Permit  me  to  assure  you  that  I am  not  in- 
truding on  your  notice  two  fortune-hunting  ad- 
venturers.  They  are  both  men  of  position  and 
men  of  property.  The  family  of  the  Stan  wicks 
has  been  well  known  to  me  for  years;  and  Mr, 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE. 


553 


Varleigh  brought  me  a letter  from  my  oldest  liv- 
ing friend,  answering  for  him  as  a gentleman  in 
the  highest  sense  of  the  word.  He  is  the  wealth- 
iest man  of  the  two;  and  it  speaks  volumes  for 
him,  in  my  opinion,  that  he  has  preserved  his 
simplicity  of  character  after  a long  residence  in 
such  places  as  Paris  and  Vienna.  Captain  S tan- 
wick  has  more  polish  and  ease  of  manner,  but, 
looking  under  the  surface,  I rather  fancy  there 
may  be  something  a little  impetuous  and  domi- 
neering in  his  temper.  However,  we  all  have 
our  faults.  I can  only  say,  for  both  these  young 
friends  of  mine,  that  you  need  feel  no  scruple 
about  admitting  them  to  your  intimacy,  if  they 
happen  to  please  you — and  your  niece.  Having 
now,  I hope,  removed  any  doubts  which  may 
have  troubled  you,  pray  recall  Miss  Bertha.  I 
am  afraid  I have  interrupted  you  in  discussing 
your  plans  for  the  day.” 

The  smoothly  eloquent  doctor  paused  for  the 
moment;  and  I darted  away  from  the  door. 

Our  plans  for  the  day  included  a drive  through 
the  famous  scenery  near  the  town.  My  two  ad- 
mirers met  us  on  horseback.  Here,  again,  the 
Captain  had  the  advantage  over  his  friend.  His 
seat  in  the  saddle  and  his  riding-dress  were  both 
perfect  things  in  their  way.  The  Englishman 
rode  on  one  side  of  the  carriage  and  the  Ameri- 
can on  the  other.  They  both  talked  well,  but 
Mr.  Varleigh  had  seen  more  of  the  world  in  gen- 
eral than  Captain  Stan  wick,  and  he  made  him- 
self certainly  the  more  interesting  and  more 
amusing  companion  of  the  two. 


554 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


On  our  way  back  my  admiration  was  excited 
by  a thick  wood,  beautifully  situated  on  rising 
ground  at  a little  distance  from  the  high-road. 
“Oh,  dear, 53  I said,  “how  I should  like  to  take 
a walk  in  that  wood!3’  Idle,  thoughtless  words; 
but,  oh,  what  remembrances  crowd  on  me  as  I 
think  of  them  now ! 

Captain  Stan  wick  and  Mr.  Varleigh  at  once 
dismounted  and  offered  themselves  as  my  escort. 
The  coachman  warned  them  to  be  careful ; people 
had  often  lost  themselves,  he  said,  in  that  wood. 
I asked  the  name  of  it.  The  name  was  Herne 
Wood,  My  aunt  was  not  very  willing  to  leave 
her  comfortable  seat  in  the  carriage,  but  it  ended 
in  her  going  with  us. 

Before  we  entered  the  wood,  Mr.  Varleigh 
noted  the  position  of  the  high-road  by  his  pocket- 
compass.  Captain  Stanwick  laughed  at  him, 
and  offered  me  his  arm.  Ignorant  as  I was  of 
the  ways  of  the  world  and  the  rules  of  coquetry, 
my  instinct  (I  suppose)  warned  me  not  to  dis- 
tinguish one  of  the  gentlemen  too  readily  at  the 
expense  of  the  other.  I took  my  aunt’s  arm  and 
settled  it  in  that  way. 

A winding  path  led  us  into  the  wood. 

On  a nearer  view,  the  place  disappointed  me; 
the  further  we  advanced,  the  more  horribly 
gloomy  it  grew.  The  thickly  - growing  trees 
shut  out  th9  light;  the  damp  stole  over  me  lit- 
tle by  little  until  I shivered ; the  undergrowth 
of  bushes  and  thickets  rustled  at  intervals  mys- 
teriously, as  some  invisible  creeping  creature 
passed  through  it.  At  a turn  in  the  path  we 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE. 


555 


reached  a sort  of  clearing,  and  saw  the  sky  and 
the  sunshine  once  more.  But,  even  here,  a dis- 
agreeable incident  occurred.  A snake  wound 
his  undulating  way  across  the  open  space,  pass- 
ing close  by  me,  and  I was  fool  enough  to  scream.. 
The  Captain  killed  the  creature  with  his  riding- 
cane,  taking  a pleasure  in  doing  it  which  I did 
not  like  to  see. 

We  left  the  clearing  and  tried  another  path, 
and  then  another.  And  still  the  horrid  wood 
preyed  on  my  spirits.  I agreed  with  my  aunt 
that  we  should  do  well  to  return  to  the  carriage. 
On  our  way  back  we  missed  the  right  path,  and 
lost  ourselves  for  the  moment.  Mr.  Varleigh 
consulted  his  compass,  and  pointed  in  one  direc- 
tion. Captain  Stan  wick,  consulting  nothing  but 
his  own  jealous  humor,  pointed  in  the  other. 
We  followed  Mr.  Varleigh’s  guidance,  and  got 
back  to  the  clearing.  He  turned  to  the  Captain, 
and  said,  good-humoredly:  “You  see  the  com- 
pass was  right.”  Capt  in  Stanwick  answered, 
sharply:  “There  are  more  ways  than  one  out  of 
an  English  wood;  you  talk  as  if  we  were  in  one 
of  your  American  forests.” 

Mr.  Varleigh  seemed  to  be  at  a loss  to  under- 
stand his  rudeness:  there  was  a pause.  The  two 
men  looked  at  each  other,  standing  face  to  face 
on  the  brown  earth  of  the  clearing — the  English- 
man’s ruddy  countenance,  light  auburn  hair  and 
whiskers,  and  well-opened  bold  blue  eyes,  con- 
trasting with  the  pale  complexion,  the  keenly- 
observant  look,  the  dark  closely-cut  hair,  and 
the  delicately-lined  face  of  the  American.  It 


556 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


was  only  for  a moment:  I had  barely  time  to 
feel  uneasy  before  they  controlled  themselves 
and  led  us  back  to  the  carriage,  talking  as  pleas- 
antly as  if  nothing  had  happened.  For  days 
afterward,  nevertheless,  that  scene  in  the  clear- 
ing— the  faces  and  figures  of  the  two  men,  the 
dark  line  of  trees  hemming  them  in  on  all  sides, 
the  brown  circular  patch  of  ground  on  which 
they  stood — haunted  my  memory,  and  got  in  the 
way  of  my  brighter  and  happier  thoughts.  When 
my  aunt  inquired  if  I had  enjoyed  the  day,  I sur- 
prised her  by  saying  No.  And  when  she  asked 
why,  I could  only  answer:  “It  was  all  spoiled 
by  Herne  Wood.” 


III. 

Three  weeks  passed. 

The  terror  of  those  dreadful  days  creeps  over 
me  again  when  I think  of  them.  I mean  to  tell 
the  truth  without  shrinking;  but  I may  at  least 
consult  my  own  feelings  by  dwelling  on  certain 
particulars  as  briefly  as  I can.  I shall  describe 
my  conduct  toward  the  two  men  who  courted 
me  in  the  plainest  terms,  if  I say  that  I distim 
guished  neither  of  them.  Innocently  and  stupidly 
I encouraged  them  both. 

In  books,  women  are  generally  represented  as 
knowing  their  own  minds  in  matters  which  re- 
late to  love  and  marriage.  This  is  not  my  ex- 
perience of  myself.  Day  followed  day;  and, 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE.  557 


ridiculous  as  it  may  appear,  I could  not  decide 
which  of  my  two  admirers  I liked  best! 

Captain  Stanwick  was,  at  first,  the  man  of  my 
choice.  While  he  kept  his  temper  under  control, 
he  charmed  me.  But  when  he  let  it  escape  him, 
he  sometimes  disappointed,  sometimes  irritated 
me.  In  that  frame  of  mind  I turned  for  relief 
to  Lionel  Varleigh,  feeling  that  he  was  the  more 
gentle  and  the  more  worthy  man  of  the  two,  and 
honestly  believing,  at  such  times,  that  I pre- 
ferred him  to  his  rival.  For  the  first  few  days 
after  our  visit  to  Herne  Wood  I had  excellent 
opportunities  of  comparing  them.  They  paid 
their  visits  to  us  together,  and  they  divided  their 
attentions  carefully  between  me  and  my  aunt. 
At  the  end  of  the  week,  however,  they  began  to 
present  themselves  separately.  If  I had  possessed 
any  experience  of  the  natures  of  men,  I might 
have  known  what  this  meant,  and  might  have 
seen  the  future  possibility  of  some  more  serious 
estrangement  between  the  two  friends,  of  which 
1 might  be  the  unfortunate  cause.  As  it  was,  I 
never  once  troubled  my  head  about  what  might 
be  passing  out  of  my  presence.  Whether  they 
came  together,  or  whether  they  came  separately, 
their  visits  were  always  agreeable  to  me,  and 
I thought  of  nothing  and  cared  for  nothing 
more. 

But  the  time  that  was  to  enlighten  me  was  not 
far  off. 

One  day  Captain  Stanwick  called  much  earlier 
than  usual.  My  aunt  had  not  yet  returned  from 
her  morning  walk.  The  Captain  made  some  ex> 


558 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


case  for  presenting  himself  under  these  circum- 
stances which  I have  now  forgotten. 

Without  actually  committing  himself  to  a pro- 
posal of  marriage  he  spoke  with  such  tender  feel- 
ing, he  managed  his  hold  on  my  inexperience  so 
delicately,  that  he  entrapped  me  into  saying  some 
words,  on  my  side,  which  I remembered  with  a 
certain  dismay  as  soon  as  1 was  left  alone  again. 
In  half  an  hour  more,  Mr.  Lionel  Varleigh  was 
announced  as  my  next  visitor.  I at  once  noticed 
a certain  disturbance  in  his  look  and  manner 
which  was  quite  new  in  my  experience  of  him. 
I offered  him  a chair.  To  my  surprise  he  de- 
clined to  take  it. 

“I  must  trust  to  your  indulgence  to  permit 
me  to  put  an  embarrassing  question  to  you/’  he 
began.  “It;  rests  with  you,  Miss  Laroche,  to 
decide  whether  I shall  remain  here,  or  whether  I 
shall  relieve  you  of  my  presence  by  leaving  the 
room.” 

“What  can  you  possibly  mean?”  1 asked. 

“Is  it  your  wish,”  he  went  on,  “that  I should 
pay  you  no  more  visits  except  in  Captain  Stan- 
wick’s  company,  or  by  Captain  Stan  wick’s  ex- 
press permission?” 

My  astonishment  deprived  me  for  the  moment 
of  the  power  of  answering  him.  “Do  you  really 
mean  that  Captain  Stanwick  has  forbidden  you 
to  call  on  me?”  I asked  as  soon  as  I could  speak. 

“I  have  exactly  repeated  what  Captain  Stan- 
wick said  to  me  half  an  hour  since,”  Lionel  Var- 
leigh answered. 

In  my  indignation  at  hearing  this*  T entirely 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE. 


559 


forgot  the  rash  words  of  encouragement  which 
the  Captain  had  entrapped  me  into  speaking  to 
him.  When  I think  of  it  now,  1 am  ashamed 
to  repeat  the  language  in  which  I resented  this 
man’s  presumptuous  assertion  of  authority  over 
me.  Having  committed  one  act  of  indiscretion 
already,  my  anxiety  to  assert  my  freedom  of  ac- 
tion hurried  me  into  committing  another.  I 
bade  Mr.  Varleigh  welcome  whenever  he  chose 
to  visit  me,  in  terms  which  made  his  face  flush 
under  the  emotions  of  pleasure  and  surprise  which 
I had  aroused  in  him.  My  wounded  vanity  ac- 
knowledged no  restraints.  I signed  to  him  to 
take  a seat  on  the  sofa  at  my  side;  I engaged  to 
go  to  his  lodgings  the  next  day,  with  my  aunt, 
and  see  the  collection  of  curiosities  which  he  had 
amassed  in  the  course  of  his  travels.  I almost 
believe,  if  he  had  tried  to  kiss  me,  that  I was 
angry  enough  with  the  Captain  to  have  let  him 
do  it! 

Remember  what  my  life  had  been — remember 
how  ignorantly  I had  passed  the  precious  days 
of  my  youth,  how  insidiously  a sudden  accession 
of  wealth  and  importance  had  encouraged  my 
folly  and  my  pride — and  try,  like  good.  Chris- 
tians, to  make  some  allowance  for  me! 

My  aunt  came  in  from  her  walk,  before  Mr, 
Yarleigh’s  visit  had  ended.  She  received  him 
rather  coldly,  and  he  perceived  it.  After  re- 
minding me  of  our  appointment  for  the  next 
day,  he  took  his  leave. 

4 4 What  appointment  does  Mr.  Varleigh  mean?” 
my  aunt  asked,  as  soon  as  we  were  alone.  “Is 


560 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


it  wise,  under  the  circumstances,  to  make  ap- 
pointments with  Mr.  Yarleigh?”  she  said,  when 
1 had  answered  her  question.  I naturally  in- 
quired what  she  meant.  My  aunt  replied,  “I 
have  met  Captain  Stanwick  while  I was  out 
walking.  He  has  told  me  something  which  I 
am  quite  at  a loss  to  understand.  Is  it  possible, 
Bertha,  that  you  have  received  a proposal  of 
marriage  from  him  favorably,  without  saying 
one  word  about  your  intentions  to  me?” 

I instantly  denied  it.  However  rashly  I might 
have  spoken,  I had  certainly  said  nothing  to 
justify  Captain  Stanwick  in  claiming  me  as  his 
promised  wife.  In  his  mean  fear  of  a fair  rivalry 
with  Mr.  Yarleigh,  he  had  deliberately  misinter- 
preted me.  “If  1 1 marry  either  of  the  two,”  I 
said,  “it  will  be  Mr.  Yarleigh!” 

My  aunt  shook  her  head.  “These  two  gentle- 
men seem  to  be  both  in  love  with  you,  Bertha. 
It  is  a trying  position  for  you  between  them, 
and  I am  afraid  you  have  acted  with  some  in- 
discretion. Captain  Stanwick  tells  me  that  he 
and  his  friend  have  come  to  a separation  already. 
I fear  you  are  the  cause  of  it.  Mr.  Yarleigh  has 
left  the  hotel  at  which  he  was  staying  with  the 
Captain,  in  consequence  of  a disagreement  be- 
tween them  this  morning.  You  were  not  aware 
of  that  when  you  accepted  his  invitation.  Shall 
I write  an  excuse  for  you?  We  must,  at  least, 
put  off  the  visit,  my  dear,  until  you  have  set 
yourself  right  with  Captain  Stanwick.” 

I began  to  feel  a little  alarmed,  but  I was  too 
obstinate  to  yield  without  a struggle.  “Give 


MI?S  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE. 


561 


me  time  to  think  over  it,”  I said.  “To  write 
an  excuse  seems  like  acknowledging  the  Cap- 
tain’s authority.  Let  us  wait  till  to-morow 
morning.  ’ ’ 


IV. 

The  morning  brought  with  it  another  visit 
from  Captain  Stanwick.  This  time  my  aunt  was 
present.  He  looked  at  her  without  speaking, 
and  turned  to  me,  with  his  fiery  temper  showing 
itself  already  in  his  eyes. 

“I  have  a word  to  say  to  you  in  private,”  he 
began. 

“I  have  no  secrets  from  my  aunt,”  I answered. 
“Whatever  you  have  to  say,  Captain  Stanwick, 
may  be  said  here.” 

He  opened  his  lips  to  reply,  and  suddenly 
checked  himself.  He  was  controlling  his  anger 
by  so  violent  an  effort  that  it  turned  his  ruddy 
face  pale.  For  the  moment  he  conquered  his 
temper — he  addressed  himself  to  me  with  the 
outward  appearance  cf  respect  at  least. 

“Has  that  man  Varleigh  lied?”  he  asked; 
“or  have  you  given  him  hopes,  too— after  what 
you  said  to  me  yesterday?” 

“I  said  nothing  to  you  yesterday  which  gives 
you  any  right  to  put  that  question  to  me,”  I re- 
joined. “You  have  entirely  misunderstood  me, 
if  you  think  so.” 

My  aunt  attempted  to  say  a few  temperate 
words,  in  the  hope  of  soothing  him.  He  waved 


502 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


his  hand,  refusing  to  listen  to  her,  and  advanced 
closer  to  me. 

“ You  have  misunderstood  me,”  he  said,  “if 
you  think  I am  a man  to  be  made  a plaything 
of  in  the  hands  of  a coquette!” 

My  aunt  interposed  once  more,  with  a resolu- 
tion which  I had  not  expected  from  her. 

“Captain  Stan  wick,”  she  said,  “you  are  for- 
getting yourself.” 

He  paid  no  heed  to  her ; he  persisted  in  speak- 
ing to  me.  “It  is  my  misfortune  to  love  you,” 
he  burst  out.  “My  whole  heart  is  set  on  you. 
I mean  to  be  your  husband,  and  no  other  man 
living  shall  stand  in  my  way.  After  what  you 
said  to  me  yesterday,  I have  a right  to  consider 
that  you  have  favored  my  addresses.  This  is 
not  a mere  flirtation.  Don’t  think  it!  I say  it’s 
the  passion  of  a life!  Do  you  hear?  It’s  the 
passion  of  a man’s  whole  life!  I am  not  to  be 
trifled  with.  I have  had  a night  of  sleepless 
misery  about  you — I have  suffered  enough  for 
you  — and  you’re  not  worth  it.  Don’t  laugh! 
This  is  no  laughing  matter.  Take  care,  Bertha! 
Take  care!” 

My  aunt  rose  from  her  chair.  She  astonished 
me.  On  all  ordinary  occasions  the  most  retir- 
ing, the  most  feminine  of  women,  she  now  walked 
up  to  Captain  Stanwick  and  looked  him  full  in 
the  face,  without  flinching  for  an  instant. 

“You  appear  to  have  forgotten  that  you  are 
speaking  in  the  presence  of  two  ladies,”  she  said. 
“Alter  your  tone,  sir,  or  I shall  be  obliged  to  take 
my  niece  out  of  the  room.” 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE. 


563 


Half  angry,  half  frightened,  I tried  to  speak 
in  my  turn.  My  aunt  signed  to  me  to  be  silent. 
The  Captain  drew  back  a step  as  if  he  felt  her 
reproof.  But  his  eyes,  still  fixed  on  me,  were  as 
fiercely  bright  as  ever.  There  the  gentleman’s 
superficial  good-breeding  failed  to  hide  the  nat- 
ural man  beneath. 

“I  will  leave  you  in  undisturbed  possession  of 
the  room,”  he  said  to  my  aunt  with  bitter  polite- 
ness. “Before  I go,  permit  me  to  give  your  niece 
an  opportunity  of  reconsidering  her  conduct  be- 
fore  it  is  too  late.”  My  aunt  drew  back,  leaving 
him  free  to  speak  to  me.  After  considering  for  a 
moment,  he  laid  his  hand  firmly,  but  not  roughly, 
on  my  arm.  “You  have  accepted  Lionel  Var- 
leigh’s  invitation  to  visit  him,”  he  said,  “under 
pretense  of  seeing  his  curiosities.  Think  again 
before  you  decide  on  keeping  that  engagement. 
If  you  go  to  Varleigh  to-morrow,  you  will  repent 
it  to  the  last  day  of  your  life.”  Saying  those 
words,  in  atone  which  made  me  tremble  in  spite 
of  myself,  he  walked  to  the  door.  As  he  laid 
his  hand  on  the  lock,  he  turned  toward  me  for 
the  last  time.  “I  forbid  you  to  go  to  Varleigh’s 
lodgings,”  he  said,  very  distinctly  and  quietly. 
“Understand  what  I tell  you.  I forbid  it.” 

With  those  words  he  left  us. 

My  aunt  sat  down  by  me  and  took  my  hand 
kindly.  “There  is  only  one  thing  to  be  done,” 
she  said;  “we  must  return  at  once  to  Nettlegrove. 
If  Captain  Stanwick  attempts  to  annoy  you  in 
your  own  house,  we  have  neighbors  who  will  pro- 
tect us,  and  we  have  Mr.  Loring,  our  rector,  to 


564 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS, 


appeal  to  for  advice.  As  for  Mr.  Varleigh,  I will 
write  our  excuses  myself  before  we  go  away.” 

She  put  out  her  hand  to  ring  the  bell  and  order 
the  carriage.  I stopped  her.  My  childish  pride 
urged  me  to  assert  myself  in  some  way,  after  the 
passive  position  that  I had  been  forced  to  occupy 
during  the  interview  with  Captain  Stanwick. 

“No,”  I said,  “it  is  not  acting  fairly  toward 
Mr.  Varleigh  to  break  our  engagement  with  him. 
Let  us  return  to  Nettlegrove  by  all  means,  but 
let  us  first  call  on  Mr.  Varleigh  and  take  our 
leave.  Are  we  to  behave  rudely  to  a gentleman 
who  has  always  treated  us  with  the  utmost  con- 
sideration, because  Captain  Stanwick  has  tried 
to  frighten  us  by  cowardly  threats?  The  com- 
monest feeling  of  self-respect  forbids  it.” 

My  aunt  protested  against  this  outbreak  of 
folly  with  perfect  temper  and  good  sense.  But 
my  obstinacy  (my  firmness  as  I thought  it!)  was 
immovable.  I left  her  to  choose  between  going 
with  me  to  Mr.  Varleigh,  or  letting  me  go  to 
him  by  myself.  Finding  it  useless  to  resist, 
she  decided,  it  is  needless  to  say,  on  going  with 
me. 

We  found  Mr.  Varleigh  very  courteous,  but 
more  than  usually  grave  and  quiet.  Our  visit 
only  lasted  for  a few  minutes;  my  aunt  using 
the  influence  of  her  age  and  her  position  to 
shorten  it.  She  mentioned  family  affairs  as 
the  motive  which  recalled  us  to  Nettlegrove.  I 
took  it  on  myself  to  invite  Mr.  Varleigh  to  visit 
me  at  my  own  house.  He  bowed  and  thanked 
me,  without  engaging  himself  to  accept  the  in- 


HISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE. 


565 


vitation.  When  I offered  him  my  hand  at  part- 
ing, he  raised  it  to  his  lips,  and  kissed  it  with  a 
fervor  that  agitated  me.  His  eyes  looked  into 
mine  with  a sorrowful  admiration,  with  a linger- 
ing regret,  as  if  they  were  taking  their  leave  of 
me  for  a long  while.  “Don’t  forget  me!”  he 
whispered,  as  he  stood  at  the  door,  while  I fol- 
lowed my  aunt  out.  “Come  to  Nettlegrove,”  I 
whispered  back.  His  eyes  dropped  to  the  ground ; 
he  let  me  go  without  a word  more. 

This,  I declare  solemnly,  was  all  that  passed 
at  our  visit.  By  some  unexpressed  consent 
among  us,  no  allusion  whatever  was  made  to 
Captain  Stan  wick;  not  even  his  name  was  men- 
tioned. I never  knew  that  the  two  men  had 
met,  just  before  we  called  on  Mr.  Varleigh, 
Nothing  was  said  which  could  suggest  to  me 
the  slightest  suspicion  of  any  arrangement  for 
another  meeting  between  then  later  in  the  day. 
Beyond  the  vague  threats  which  had  escaped 
Captain  Stanwick’s  lips — threats  which  I own 
I was  rash  enough  to  despise — I had  no  warning 
whatever  of  the  dreadful  events  which  happened 
at  Maplesworth  on  the  day  after  our  return  to 
Nettlegrove  Hall. 

I can  only  add  that  I am  ready  to  submit  to 
any  questions  that  may  be  put  to  me.  Pray 
don’t  think  me  a heartless  woman.  My  worst 
fault  was  ignorance.  In  those  days,  I knew 
nothing  of  the  false  pretenses  under  which  men 
hide  what  is  selfish  and  savage  in  their  natures 
from  the  women  whom  it  is  their  interest  to 
deceive. 


566 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLTNS. 


No.  2. — Julius  Bender , fencing-master , fes- 
tifies  and  says:  — 

I am  of  German  nationality;  established  in 
England  as  teacher  of  the  use  of  the  sword  and 
the  pistol  since  the  beginning  of  the  present  year. 

Finding  business  slack  in  London,  it  unfortu- 
nately occurred  to  me  to  try  what  I could  do  in 
the  country.  I had  heard  of  Maples  worth  as  a 
place  largely  frequented  by  visitors  on  account 
of  the  scenery,  as  well  as  by  invalids  in  need  of 
taking  the  waters;  and  I opened  a gallery  there 
at  the  beginning  of  the  season  of  1817,  for  fenc- 
ing and  pistol  practice.  About  the  visitors  I had 
not  been  deceived;  there  were  plenty  cf  idle 
young  gentlemen  among  them  who  might  have 
been  expected  to  patronize  my  establishment. 
They  showed  the  most  barbarous  indifference 
to  the  noble  art  of  attack  and  defense — came 
by  twos  and  threes,  looked  at  my  gallery,  and 
never  returned.  My  small  means  began  to  fail 
me.  After  paying  my  expenses,  I was  really  at 
my  wits’  end  to  find  a few  pounds  to  go  on  with, 
in  the  hope  of  better  days. 

One  gentleman,  I remember,  who  came  to  see 
me,  and  who  behaved  most  liberally. 

He  described  himself  as  an  American,  and  said 
he  had  traveled  a great  deal.  As  my  ill  luck 
would  have  it,  he  stood  in  no  need  of  my  instruc- 
tions. On  the  two  or  three  occasions  when  he 
amused  himself  with  my  foils  and  my  pistols,  he 
proved  to  be  one  of  the  most  expert  swordsmen 
and  one  of  the  finest  shots  that  I ever  met  with. 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE. 


56? 


It  was  not  wonderful:  he  had  by  nature  cool 
nerves  and  a quick  eye ; and  he  had  been  taught 
by  the  masters  of  the  art  in  Vienna  and  Paris. 

Early  in  July — the  9fch  or  10th  of  the  month, 
I think — I was  sitting  aLne  in  my  gallery,  look- 
ing ruef  ally  enough  at  the  last  two  sovereigns 
in  my  purse,  when  a gentleman  was  announced 
who  wanted  a lesson.  “A private  lesson,”  he 
said,  with  emphasis,  looking  at  the  man  who 
cleaned  and  took  care  of  my  weapons. 

I sent  the  man  out  of  the  room.  The  stranger 
(an  Englishman,  and,  as  I fancied,  judging  by 
outward  appearances,  a military  man  as  well) 
took  from  his  pocket-book  a fifty-pound  bank- 
note, and  held  it  up  before  me.  “I  have  a heavy 
wager  depending  on  a fencing  match,”  he  said, 
“and  1 have  no  time  to  improve  myself.  Teach 
me  a trick  which  will  make  me  a match  for  a 
man  skilled  in  the  use  of  the  foil,  and  keep  the 
secret — and  there  are  fifty  pounds  for  you.” 

I hesitated.  I did.  indeed  hesitate,  poor  as  I 
was.  But  this  devil  of  a man  held  his  bank- 
note before  me  whichever  way  I looked,  and  I 
had  only  two  pounds  left  in  the  world ! 

“Are  you  going  to  fight  a duel?”  I asked. 

“I  have  already  told  you  what  I am  going  to 
do,”  he  answered. 

I waited  a little.  The  infernal  bank-note  still 
tempted  me.  In  spite  of  myself,  I tried  him 
again. 

“If  I teach  you  the  trick,”  1 persisted,  “will 
you  undertake  to  make  no  bad  use  of  your 
lesson?” 


568 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS, 


“Yes/9  he  said,  impatiently  enough. 

I was  not  quite  satisfied  yet. 

“Will  you  promise  it,  on  your  word  of  honor?” 
1 asked. 

“Of  course  I will,”  he  answered.  “Take  the 
money,  and  don’t  keep  me  waiting  any  longer.” 

I took  the  money,  and  I taught  him  the  trick — 
and  I regretted  it  almost  as  soon  as  it  was  done. 
Not  that  I knew,  mind,  of  any  serious  conse- 
quences that  followed;  for  I returned  to  London 
the  next  morning.  My  sentiments  were  those  of 
a man  of  honor,  who  felt  that  he  had  degraded 
his  art,  and  who  could  not  be  quite  sure  that 
he  might  not  have  armed  the  hand  of  an  assassin 
as  well.  I have  no  more  to  say. 


No.  3. — Thomas  Outwater , servant  to  Cap- 
tain Stanwick,  testifies  and  says: — 

If  I did  not  firmly  believe  my  master  to  be 
out  of  his  senses,  no  punishment  that  I could  re- 
ceive would  prevail  upon  me  to  tell  of  him  what 
I am  going  to  tell  now. 

But  I say  he  is  mad,  and  therefore  not  ac- 
countable for  what  he  has  done — mad  for  love  of 
a young  woman.  If  I could  have  my  way,  I 
should  like  to  twist  her  neck,  though  she  is  a 
lady,  and  a great  heiress  into  the  bargain.  Be- 
fore she  came  between  them,  my  master  and  Mr. 
Varleigh  weie  more  like  brothers  than  anything 
else.  She  set  them  at  variance,  and  whether  she 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE. 


569 


meant  to  do  it  or  not  is  all  the  same  to  me.  I 
own  I took  a dislike  to  her  when  I first  saw  her. 
She  was  one  of  the  light-haired,  blae-eyed  sort, 
with  an  innocent  look  and  a snaky  waist— 
not  at  all  to  be  depended  on,  as  I have  found 
them. 

I hear  I am  not  expected  to  give  an  account  of 
the  disagreement  between  the  two  gentlemen,  of 
which  this  lady  was  the  cause.  I am  to  state 
what  I did  in  Maplesworth,  and  what  I saw  af- 
terward in  Herne  Wood.  Poor  as  I am,  I would 
give  a five-pound  note  to  anybody  who  could  do 
it  for  me.  Unfortunately,  I must  do  it  for 
myself. 

On  the  10th  of  J uly,  in  the  evening,  my  mas- 
ter went,  for  the  second  time  that  day,  to  Mr. 
Yarleigh’s  lodgings. 

I am  certain  of  the  date,  because  it  was  the 
day  of  publication  of  the  town  newspaper,  and 
there  was  a law  report  in  it  which  set  everybody 
talking.  There  had  been  a duel  with  pistols,  a 
day  or  two  before,  between  a resident  in  the 
town  and  a visitor,  caused  by  some  dispute 
about  horses,  Nothing  very  serious  came  of 
the  meeting.  One  of  the  men  only  was  hurt, 
and  the  wound  proved  to  be  of  no  great  im- 
portance. The  awkward  part  of  the  matter  was 
that  the  constables  appeared  on  the  ground,  be- 
fore the  wounded  man  had  been  removed.  He 
and  his  two  seconds  were  caught,  and  the  pris- 
oners were  committed  for  trial.  Dueling  (the 
magistrates  said)  was  an  inhuman  and  unchris- 
tian practice,  and  they  were  determined  to  put 


570 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


the  law  in  force  and  stop  it.  This  sentence 
made  a great  stir  in  the  town,  and  fixed  the 
date,  as  T have  just  said,  in  my  mind. 

Having  been  accidentally  within  hearing  of 
some  of  the  disputes  concerning  Miss  Laroche 
between  my  master  and  Mr.  Varleigh,  I had  my 
misgivings  about  the  Captain’s  second  visit  to 
the  friend  with  whom  he  had  quarreled  already. 
A gentleman  called  on  him,  soon  after  he  had 
gone  out,  on  important  business.  This  gave  me 
an  excuse  for  following  him  to  Mr.  Yarleigh’s 
rooms  with  the  visitor’s  card,  and  I took  the 
opportunity. 

I heard  them  at  high  words  on  my  way  up^ 
stairs,  and  waited  a little  on  the  landing.  The 
Captain  was  in  one  of  his  furious  rages;  Mr. 
Varleigh  was  firm  and  cool  as  usual.  After  list- 
ening for  a minute,  or  so,  I heard  enough  (in 
my  opinion)  to  justify  me  in  entering  the  room. 
I caught  my  master  in  the  act  of  lifting  his  cane 
— threatening  to  strike  Mr.  Varleigh.  He  in- 
stantly dropped  his  hand,  and  turned  on  me  in  a 
fury  at  my  intrusion.  Taking  no  notice  of  this 
outbreak  of  temper,  1 gave  him  his  friend’s  card, 
and  went  out.  A talk  followed  in  voices  too 
low  for  me  to  hear  outside  the  room,  and  then 
the  Captain  approached  the  door.  I got  out  of 
his  way,  feeling  very  uneasy  about  what  was  to 
come  next.  I could  not  presume  to  question  Mr. 
Varleigh.  The  only  thing  I could  think  of  was 
to  tell  the  young  lady’s  aunt  what  I had  seen 
and  heard,  and  to  plead  with  Miss  Laroche  her- 
self to  make  peace  between  them.  When  I in- 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE. 


571 


quired  for  the  ladies  at  their  lodgings,  I was  told 
that  they  had  left  Maplesworth. 

I saw  no  more  of  the  Captain  that  night 
The  next  morning  he  seemed  to  be  quite  him- 
self again.  He  said  to  me,  “ Thomas,  I am  going 
sketching  in  Herne  Wood.  Take  the  paint-box 
and  the  rest  of  it,  and  put  this  into  the  carriage.” 
He  handed  me  a packet  as  thick  as  my  arm, 
and  about  three  feet  long,  done  up  in  many  folds 
of  canvas.  I made  bold  to  ask  what  it  was.  He 
answered  that  it  was  an  artist’s  sketching  um- 
brella, packed  for  traveling. 

In  an  hour’s  time,  the  carriage  stopped  on  the 
road  below  Herne  Wood.  My  master  said  he 
would  carry  his  sketching  things  himself,  and  I 
was  to  wait  with  the  carriage.  In  giving  him 
the  so-called  umbrella,  I took  the  occasion  of  his 
eye  being  off  me  for  the  moment  to  pass  my  hand 
over  it  carefully;  and  I felt,  through  the  canvas, 
the  hilt  of  a sword.  As  an  old  soldier,  I could 
not  be  mistaken — the  hilt  of  a sword. 

What  I thought,  on  making  this  discovery, 
does  not  much  matter.  What  I did  was  to  watch 
the*  Captain  into  the  wood,  and  then  to  follow 
him. 

I tracked  him  along  the  path  to  where  there 
was  a clearing  in  the  midst  of  the  trees.  There 
he  stopped,  and  I got  behind  a tree.  He  undid 
the  canvas,  and  produced  two  swords  concealed 
in  the  packet.  If  I had  felt  any  doubts  before,  I 
was  certain  of  what  was  coming  now.  A duel 
without  seconds  or  witnesses,  by  way  of  keeping 
the  town  magistrates  in  the  dark— a duel  be- 


572 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLUNfc. 

tween  my  master  and  Mr.  Yarleigh!  As  his 
name  came  into  my  mind,  the  man  himself  ap- 
peared, making  his  way  into  the  clearing  from 
the  other  side  of  the  wood. 

What  could  I do  to  stop  it?  No  human  crea- 
ture was  in  sight.  The  nearest  village  was  a 
mile  away,  reckoning  from  the  further  side  of 
the  wood.  The  coachman  was  a stupid  old  man, 
quite  useless  in  a difficulty,  even  if  I had  had 
time  enough  to  go  back  to  the  road  and  summon 
him  to  help  me.  While  I was  thinking  about 
it,  the  Captain  and  Mr.  Yarleigh  had  stripped  to 
their  shirts  and  trousers.  When  they  crossed 
their  swords,  I could  stand  it  no  longer — I burst 
in  on  them.  “For  God  Almighty’s  sake,  gen- 
tlemen,” I cried  out,  “don’t  fight  without  sec- 
onds!” My  master  turned  on  me,  like  the  mad- 
man he  was,  and  threatened  me  with  the  point 
of  his  sword.  Mr.  V"arleigh  pulled  me  back  out 
of  harm’s  way.  “Don’t  be  afraid,”  he  whis- 
pered, as  he  led  me  back  to  the  verge  of  the 
clearing;  “I  have  chosen  the  sword  instead  of 
the  pistol  expressly  to  spare  his  life.” 

Those  noble  words  (spoken  by  as  brave 'and 
true  a man  as  ever  breathed)  quieted  me.  I 
knew  Mr.  Yarleigh  had  earned  the  repute  of  be- 
ing one  of  the  finest  swordsmen  in  Europe. 

The  duel  began.  I was  placed  behind  my 
master,  and  was  consequently  opposite  to  his 
antagonist.  The  Captain  stood  on  his  defense, 
waiting  for  the  other  to  attack.  Mr.  Yarleigh 
made  a pass.  I was  opposite  the  point  of  his 
sword;  I saw  it  touch  the  Captain’s  left  shoul- 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE,  573 


der.  In  the  same  instant  of  time  my  master 
struck  up  his  opponent’s  sword  with  his  own 
weapon,  seized  Mr.  Varleigh’s  right  wrist  in 
his  left  hand,  and  passed  his  sword  clean  through 
Mr.  Yarleigh’s  breast.  He  fell,  the  victim  of  a 
murderous  trick — fell  without  a word  or  a cry. 

The  Captain  turned  slowly,  and  faced  me  with 
his  bloody  sword  in  his  hand.  I can’t  tell  you 
how  he  looked;  I can  only  say  that  the  sight  of 
him  turned  me  faint  with  terror.  I was  at  Wat- 
erloo— I am  no  coward.  But  I tell  you  the  cold 
sweat  poured  down  my  face  like  water.  I should 
have  dropped  if  I had  not  hel(J  by  the  branch  of 
a tree. 

My  master  waited  until  I had  in  a measure 
recovered  myself.  “Feel  if  his  heart  beats,”  he 
said,  pointing  to  the  man  on  the  ground. 

I obeyed.  He  was  dead — the  heart  was  still; 
the  beat  of  the  pulse  was  gone.  I said,  “You 
have  killed  him !” 

The  Captain  made  no  answer.  He  packed  up 
the  two  swords  again  in  the  canvas,  and  put 
them  under  his  arm.  Then  he  told  me  to  follow 
him  with  the  sketching  materials.  I drew  back 
from  him  without  speaking;  there  was  a horrid 
hollow  sound  in  his  voice  that  I did  not  like. 
“Do  as  I tell  you,”  he  said:  “you  have  yourself 
to  thank  for  it  if  I refuse  to  lose  sight  of  you 
now,”  I managed  to  say  that  he  might  trust  me 
to  say  nothing.  He  refused  to  trust  me;  he  put 
out  his  hand  to  take  hold  of  me.  I could  not 
stand  that.  “I’ll  go  with  you,”  I said;  “don’t 
touch  me  I”  We  reached  the  carriage  and  re- 


574 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


turned  to  Mapleswcrth.  The  same  day  we  trav- 
eled by  post  to  London. 

In  London  I contrived  to  give  the  Captain  the 
slip.  By  the  first  coach  the  next  morning  I went 
back  to  Maplesworth,  eager  to  hear  what  had 
happened,  and  if  the  body  had  been  found.  Not 
a word  of  news  reached  me;  nothing  seemed  to 
be  known  of  the  duel  in  Herne  Wood. 

I went  to  the  wood — on  foot,  fearing  that  I 
might  be  traced  if  I hired  a carriage.  The  coun- 
try round  was  as  solitary  as  usual.  Not  a crea- 
ture was  near  when  I entered  the  wood;  not 
a creature  was  near  when  I looked  into  the 
clearing. 

There  was  nothing  on  the  ground.  The  body 
was  gone. 


No.  4.  — The  Reverend  Alfred  Loving , Rector 
of  Nettlegrove , testifies  and  says: — 

I. 

Early  in  the  month  of  October,  1817,  I was 
informed  that  Miss  Bertha  Laroche  had  called 
at  my  house,  and  wished  to  see  me  in  private. 

I had  first  been  presented  to  Miss  Laroche  on 
her  arrival,  with  her  aunt,  to  take  possession  of 
her  property  at  Nettlegrove  Hall.  My  opportu- 
nities of  improving  my  acquaintance  with  her 
had  not  been  so  numerous  as  I could  have  de- 
sired, and  I sincerely  regretted  it.  She  had  pro- 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE. 


575 


duced  a very  favorable  impression  on  me.  Sin- 
gularly inexperienced  and  impulsive — with  an 
odd  mixture  of  shyness  and  vivacity  in  her  man- 
ner, and  subject  now  and  then  to  outbursts  of 
vanity  and  petulance  which  she  was  divertingly 
incapable  of  concealing — I could  detect,  never- 
theless, under  the  surface  the  signs  which  told 
of  a true  and  generous  nature,  of  a simple  and 
pure  heart.  Her  personal  appearance,  I should 
add,  was  attractive  in  a remarkable  degree. 
There  was  something  in  it  so  peculiar,  and  at 
the  same  time  so  fascinating,  that  I am  con- 
scious it  may  have  prejudiced  me  in  her  favor. 
For  fear  of  this  acknowledgment  being  misun- 
derstood, I think  it  right  to  add  that  I am  old 
enough  to  be  her  grandfather,  and  that  I am 
also  a married  man. 

I told  the  servant  to  show  Miss  Laroche  into 
my  study. 

The  moment  she  entered  the  room,  her  appear- 
ance alarmed  me:  she  looked  literally  panic- 
stricken.  I offered  to  send  for  my  wife;  she 
refused  the  proposal.  I entreated  her  to  take 
time  at  least  to  compose  herself.  It  was  not  in 
her  impulsive  nature  to  do  this.  She  said,  “Give 
me  your  hand  to  encourage  me,  and  let  me  speak 
while  I can.”  I gave  her  my  hand,  poor  soul. 
I said,  “Speak  to  me,  my  dear,  as  if  I were  your 
father.” 

So  far  as  I could  understand  the  incoherent 
statement  which  she  addressed  to  me,  she  had 
been  the  object  of  admiration  (while  visiting 
Maples  worth)  of  two  gentlemen,  who  both  de- 


576 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


sired  to  marry  her.  Hesitating  between  them, 
and  perfectly  inexperienced  in  such  matters,  she 
had  been  the  unfortunate  cause  of  enmity  be- 
tween the  rivals,  and  had  returned  to  Nettle- 
grove,  at  her  aunt’s  suggestion,  as  the  best 
means  of  extricating  herself  from  a very  embar- 
rassing position.  The  removal  failing  to  allevi- 
ate her  distressing  recollections  of  what  had  hap- 
pened, she  *and  her  aunt  had  tried  a further 
change  by  making  a tour  of  two  months  on  the 
Continent.  She  had  returned  in  a more  quiet 
frame  of  mind.  To  her  great  surprise,  she  had 
heard  nothing  of  either  of  her  two  suitors,  from 
the  day  when  she  left  Maplesworth  to  the  day 
when  she  presented  herself  at  my  rectory. 

Early  that  morning  she  was  walking,  after 
breakfast,  in  the  park  at  Nettlegrove  when  she 
heard  footsteps  behind  her.  She  turned,  and 
found  herself  face  to  face  with  one  of  her  suitors 
at  Maplesworth.  I am  informed  that  there  is 
no  necessity  now  for  my  suppressing  the  name. 
The  gentleman  was  Captain  Stan  wick. 

He  was  so  fearfully  changed  for  the  worse 
that  she  hardly  knew  him  again. 

After  his  first  glance  at  her,  he  held  his  hand 
over  his  bloodshot  eyes  as  if  the  sunlight  hurs 
them.  Without  a word  to  prepare  her  for  the 
disclosure,  he  confessed  that  he  had  killed  Mr. 
Varleigh  in  a duel.  His  remorse  (he  declared) 
had  unsettled  his  reason : only  a few  days  had 
passed  since  he  had  been  released  from  confine- 
ment in  an  asylum. 

“You  are  the  cause  of  it,”  he  said  wildly.  “It 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE. 


577 


is  for  love  of  you.  I have  but  one  hope  left  to 
li ve  for — my  hope  in  you.  If  you  cast  me  off, 
my  mind  is  made  up.  I will  give  my  life  for 
the  life  that  I have  taken;  1 will  die  by  my  own 
hand.  Look  at  me,  and  you  will  see  that  I am 
in  earnest.  My  future  as  a living  man  depends 
on  your  decision.  Think  of  it  to-day,  and  meet 
me  here  to-morrow.  Not  at  this  time;  the  horrid 
daylight  feels  like  fire  in  my  eyes,  and  goes  like 
fire  to  my  brain.  Wait  till  sunset — you  will 
find  me  here.” 

He  left  her  as  suddenly  as  he  had  appeared. 
When  she  had  sufficiently  recovered  herself  to 
be  able  to  think,  she  decided  on  saying  nothing 
of  what  had  happened  to  her  aunt.  She  took  her 
way  to  the  rectory  to  seek  my  advice 

It  is  needless  to  encumber  my  narrative  by  any 
statement  of  the  questions  which  I felt  it  my  duty 
to  put  to  her  under  these  circumstances. 

My  inquiries  informed  me  that  Captain  Stan- 
wick  had  in  the  first  instance  produced  a favor- 
able impression  on  her.  The  less  showy  quali- 
ties of  Mr.  Varleigh  had  afterward  grown  on 
her  liking;  aided  greatly  by  the  repelling  effect 
on  her  mind  of  (he  Captain’s  violent  language 
and  conduct  when  he  had  reason  to  suspect  that 
his  rival  was  being  preferred  to  him.  When  she 
knew  the  horrible  news  of  Mr.  Varleigh’s  death, 
she  “knew  her  own  heart”  (to  repeat  her  exact 
words  to  me)  by  the  shock  that  she  felt.  Toward 
Captain  Stanwick  the  only  feeling  of  which  she 
was  now  conscious  was,  naturally,  a feeling  of 
the  strongest  aversion. 

S— Vol.  16 


578 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


My  own  course  in  this  difficult  and  painful 
matter  appeared  to  me  to  be  clear. 

“It  is  your  duty  as  a Christian  to  see  this  mis- 
erable man  again,”  I said.  “And  it  is  my  duty, 
as  your  friend  and  pastor,  to  sustain  you  under 
the  trial.  I will  go  with  you  to-morrow  to  the 
place  of  meeting. 


II. 

The  next  evening  we  found  Captain  Stan  wick 
waiting  for  us  in  the  park. 

He  drew  back  on  seeing  me.  I explained  to 
him,  temperately  and  firmly,  what  my  position 
was.  With  sullen  looks  he  resigned  himself  to 
endure  my  presence.  By  degrees  1 won  his  com 
fidence.  My  first  impression  of  him  remains  un- 
shaken— the  man’s  reason  was  unsettled.  I 
suspected  that  the  assertion  of  his  release  was 
a falsehood,  and  that  he  had  really  escaped  from 
the  asylum.  It  was  impossible  to  lure  him  into 
telling  me  where  the  place  was.  He  was  too 
cunning  to  do  this — too  cunning  to  say  anything 
about  his  relations,  when  I tried  to  turn  the  talk 
that  way  next.  On  the  other  hand,  he  spoke 
with  a revolting  readiness  of  the  crime  that  he 
had  committed,  and  of  his  settled  resolution  to 
destroy  himself  if  Miss  Laroche  refused  to  be  his 
wife.  “I  have  nothing  else  to  live  for;  I am 
alone  in  the  world,”  he  said.  “Even  my  servant 
has  deserted  me.  He  knows  how  1 killed  Lionel 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE. 


579 


Varleigh.”  He  paused  and  spoke  his  next  words 
in  a whisper  to  me.  “I  killed  him  by  a trick — 
he  was  the  best  swordsman  of  the  two.” 

This  confession  was  so  horrible  that  I could 
only  attribute  it  to  an  insane  delusion.  On  press- 
ing my  inquiries,  I found  that  the  same  idea 
must  have  occurred  to  the  poor  wretch’s  rela- 
tions, and  to  the  doctors  who  signed  the  certifi- 
cates for  placing  him  under  medical  care.  This 
conclusion  (as  I afterward  heard)  was  greatly 
strengthened  by  the  fact  that  Mr.  Yarleigh’s 
body  had  not  been  found  on  the  reported  scene 
of  the  duel.  As  to  the  servant,  he  had  deserted 
his  master  in  London,  and  had  never  reappeared. 
So  far  as  my  poor  judgment  went,  the  question 
before  me  was  not  of  delivering  a self-accused 
murderer  to  justice  (with  no  corpse  to  testify 
against  him),  but  of  restoring  an  insane  man 
to  the  care  of  the  persons  who  had  been  appointed 
to  restrain  him. 

I tried  to  test  the  strength  of  his  delusion  in 
an  interval  when  he  was  not  urging  his  shocking 
entreaties  on  Miss  Laroche. 

“How  do  you  know  that  you  killed  Mr.  Var- 
leigh?”  I said. 

He  looked  at  me  with  a wild  terror  in  his 
eyes.  Suddenly  he  lifted  his  right  hand,  and 
shook  it  in  the  air,  with  a moaning  cry,  which 
was  unmistakably  a cry  of  pain.  “Should  1 
see  his  ghost,”  he  asked,  “if  I had  not  killed 
him?  I know  it,  by  the  pain  that  wrings  me 
in  the  hand  that  stabbed  him.  Always  in  my 
right  hand ! always  the  same  pain  at  the  moment 


580 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


when  I see  him!”  He  stopped  and  ground  his 
teeth  in  the  agony  and  reality  of  his  delusion. 
“Look!”  he  cried.  “Look  between  the  two  trees 
behind  you.  There  he  is— with  his  dark  hair, 
and  his  shaven  face,  and  his  steady  look ! There 
he  is,  standing  before  me  as  he  stood  in  the  wood, 
with  his  eyes  on  my  eyes,  and  his  sword  feeling 
mine!”  He  turned  to  Miss  Laroche.  “Do  you 
see  him  too?”  he  asked  eagerly.  “Tell  me  the 
truth.  My  whole  life  depends  on  your  telling 
me  the  truth.” 

She  controlled  herself  with  a wonderful  cour- 
age. “1  don’t  see  him,”  she  answered. 

He  took  out  his  handkerchief,  and  passed  it 
over  his  face  with  a gasp  of  relief.  “There  is 
my  last  chance!”  he  said.  “If  she  will  be  true 
to  me — if  she  will  be  always  near  me,  morning, 
noon,  and  night,  I shall  be  released  from  the 
sight  of  him.  See ! he  is  fading  away  already! 
Gone!”  he  cried,  with  a scream  of  exultation. 
He  fell  on  his  knees,  and  looked  at  Miss  Laroche 
like  a savage  adoring  his  idol.  “Will  you  cast 
me  off  now?”  he  asked,  humbly.  “Lionel  was 
fond  of  you  in  his  lifetime.  His  spirit  is  a mer- 
ciful spirit.  He  shrinks  from  frightening  you; 
he  has  left  me  for  your  sake ; he  will  release  me 
for  yonr  sake.  Pity  me,  take  me  to  live  with 
you — and  I shall  never  see  him  again!” 

It  was  dreadful  to  hear  him.  I saw  that  the 
poor  girl  could  endure  no  more.  “Leave  us,” 
I whispered  to  her;  “I  will  join  you  at  the 
house.” 

He  heard  me,  and  instantly  placed  himself 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE.  581 

between  us,  s‘Let  her  promise,  or  she  shan’t 
go.” 

She  felt,  as  I felt,  the  imperative  necessity  of 
saying  anything  that  might  soothe  him.  At  a 
sign  from  me  she  gave  him  her  promise  to  return. 

He  was  satisfied — he  insisted  on  kissing  her 
hand,  and  then  he  let  her  go.  I had  by  this  time 
succeeded  in  inducing  him  to  trust  me.  He  pro- 
posed, of  his  own  accord,  that  I should  accom- 
pany him  to  the  inn  in  the  village  at  which 
he  had  been  staying.  The  landlord  (naturally 
enough  distrusting  his  wretched  guest)  had 
warned  him  that  morning  to  find  some  other 
place  of  shelter.  I engaged  to  use  my  influence 
with  the  man  to  make  him  change  his  purpose, 
and  I succeeded  in  effecting  the  necessary  ar- 
rangements for  having  the  poor  wretch  properly 
looked  after.  On  my  return  to  my  own  house, 
I wrote  to  a brother  magistrate  living  near  me, 
and  to  the  superintendent  of  our  county  asylum, 
requesting  them  to  consult  with  me  on  the  best 
means  of  lawfully  restraining  Captain  Stanwick 
until  we  could  communicate  with  his  relations. 
Could  I have  done  more  than  this?  The  event 
of  the  next  morning  answered  that  question — 
answered  it  at  once  and  forever. 


III. 


Presenting  myself  at  Nettlegrove  Hall  toward 
sunset,  to  take  charge  of  Miss  Laroche,  I was  met 


582  WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 

by  an  obstacle  in  the  shape  of  a protest  from  her 
aunt. 

This  good  lady  had  been  informed  of  the  ap- 
pearance of  Captain  Sfcanwick  in  the  park,  and 
she  strongly  disapproved  of  encouraging  any 
further  communication  with  him  on  the  part 
of  her  niece.  She  also  considered  that  I had 
failed  in  my  duty  in  still  leaving  the  Captain 
at  liberty.  I told  her  that  I was  only  waiting 
to  act  on  the  advice  of  competent  persons,  who 
would  arrive  the  next  day  to  consult  with  me; 
and  I did  my  best  to  persuade  her  of  the  wisdom 
of  the  course  that  I had  taken  in  the  meantime. 
Miss  Laroche,  on  her  side,  was  resolved  to  be 
true  to  the  promise  that  she  had  given.  Be- 
tween us,  we  induced  her  aunt  to  yield  on  certain 
conditions. 

4 ‘I  know  the  part  of  the  park  in  which  the 
meeting  is  to  take  place,”  the  old  lady  said;  4 4 it  is 
my  niece’s  favorite  walk.  If  she  is  not  brought 
back  to  me  in  half  an  hour’s  time,  I shall  send 
the  men-servants  to  protect  her.” 

The  twilight  was  falling  when  we  reached  the 
appointed  place.  We  found  Captain  Stan  wick 
angry  and  suspicious;  it  was  not  easy  to  pacify 
him  on  the  subject  of  our  delay.  His  insanity 
seemed  to  me  to  be  now  more  marked  than  ever. 
He  had  seen,  or  dreamed  of  seeing,  the  ghost  dur- 
ing the  past  night.  For  the  first  time  (he  said)  the 
apparition  of  the  dead  man  had  spoken  to  him. 
In  solemn  words  it  had  condemned  him  to  ex- 
piate his  crime  by  giving  his  life  for  the  life  that 
he  had  taken.  It  had  warned  him  not  to  insist  on 


MISS  BEBTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE.  583 


marriage  with  Bertha  Laroche:  “She  shall  share 
your  punishment  if  she  shares  your  life.  And 
you  shall  know  it  by  this  sign — She  shall  see 
me  as  you  see  me.” 

I tried  to  compose  him.  He  shook  his  head 
in  immovable  despair.  “No,”  he  answered;  “if 
she  sees  him  when  I see  him,  there  ends  the  one 
hope  of  release  that  holds  me  to  life.  It  will  be 
good-by  between  us,  and  good-by  forever!” 

We  had  walked  on,  while  we  were  speaking, 
to  a part  of  the  park  through  which  there  flowed 
a rivulet  of  clear  water.  On  the  further  bank 
the  open  ground  led  down  into  a wooded  valley. 
On  our  side  of  the  stream  rose  a thick  plantation 
of  fir-trees,  intersected  by  a winding  path.  Cap- 
tain Stanwick  stopped  as  we  reached  the  place. 
His  eyes  rested,  in  the  darkening  twilight,  on 
the  narrow  space  pierced  by  the  path  among  the 
trees.  On  a sudden  he  lifted  his  right  hand,  with 
the  same  cry  of  pain  which  we  had  heard  before; 
with  his  left  hand  he  took  Miss  Laroche  by  the 
arm.  “There!”  he  said.  “Look  where  I look! 
Do  you  see  him  there?” 

As  the  words  passed  his  lips,  a dimly- visible 
figure  appeared,  advancing  toward  us  along  the 
path. 

Was  it  the  figure  of  a living  man?  or  was  it 
the  creation  of  my  own  excited  fancy?  . Before 
I could  ask  myself  the  question,  the  man  ad- 
vanced a step  nearer  to  us.  A last  gleam  of  the 
dying  light  fell  on  his  face  through  an  opening 
in  the  trees.  At  the  same  instant  Miss  Laroche 
started  back  from  Captain  Stanwick  with  a 


584 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


scream  of  terror.  She  would  have  fallen  if  I 
had  not  been  near  enough  to  support  her.  The 
Captain  was  instantly  at  her  side  again.  “Speak!53 
he  cried.  “Do  you  see  it,  too?55 

She  was  just  able  to  say  “Yes”  before  she 
fainted  in  my  arms. 

He  stooped  over  her,  and  touched  her  cold 
cheek  with  his  lips.  “Good-by!55  he  said,  in 
tones  suddenly  and  strangely  changed  to  the 
most  exquisite  tenderness.  “Good-by,  forever!55 

He  leaped  the  rivulet;  he  crossed  the  open 
ground;  he  was  lost  to  sight  in  the  valley  be- 
yond. 

As  he  disappeared,  the  visionary  man  among 
the  fir-trees  advanced;  passed  in  silence;  crossed 
the  rivulet  at  a bound ; and  vanished  as  the  figure 
of  the  Captain  had  vanished  before  him. 

I was  left  alone  with  the  swooning  woman. 
Not  a sound,  far  or  near,  broke  the  stillness  of 
the  coming  night. 


No.  5. — Mr.  Frederic  Darnel , Member  of  the 
College  of  Surgeons , testifies  and  says: — 

In  the  intervals  of  my  professional  duty  I am 
•accustomed  to  occupy  myself  in  studying  Botany, 
assisted  by  a friend  and  neighbor,  whose  tastes 
in  this  respect  resemble  my  own.  When  I can 
spare  an  hour  or  two  from  my  patients,  we  go 
cut  together  searching  for  specimens.  Our  fa- 
vorite place  is  Herne  Wood.  It  is  rich  in  mate- 
rial for  the  botanist,  and  it  is  only  a mile  distant 
from  the  village  in  which  I live. 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE,  585 


Early  in  July,  my  friend  and  I made  a dis- 
covery in  the  wood  of  a very  alarming  and  un- 
expected kind.  We  found  a man  in  the  clearing, 
prostrated  by  a dangerous  wound,  and  to  all  ap- 
pearance dead. 

We  carried  him  to  the  gamekeeper’s  cottage 
on  the  outskirts  of  the  wood,  and  on  the  side  of 
it  nearest  to  our  village.  He  and  his  boy  were 
out,  but  the  light  cart  in  which  he  makes  his 
rounds,  in  the  remoter  part  of  his  master’s  prop- 
erty, was  in  the  outhouse.  While  my  friend  was 
putting  the  horse  to,  I examined  the  stranger’s 
wound.  It  had  been  quite  recently  inflicted,  and 
I doubted  whether  it  had  (as  yet,  at  any  rate) 
really  killed  him.  I did  what  I could  with  the 
linen  and  cold  water  which  the  gamekeeper’s 
wife  offered  to  me,  and  then  my  friend  and  I re- 
moved him  carefully  to  my  house  in  the  cart.  I 
applied  the  necessary  restoratives,  and  I had  the 
pleasure  of  satisfying  myself  that  the  vital  pow- 
ers had  revived.  He  was  perfectly  unconscious, 
of  course,  but  the  action  of  the  heart  became  dis- 
tinctly perceptible,  and  I had  hopes. 

In  a few  days  more  I felt  fairly  sure  of  him. 
Then  the  usual  fever  set  in.  I was  obliged,  in 
justice  to  his  friends,  to  search  his  clothes  in 
presence  of  a witness.  We  found  his  handker- 
chief, his  purse,  and  his  cigar-case,  and  nothing 
more.  Ho  letters  or  visiting  cards;  nothing 
marked  on  his  clothes  but  initials.  There  was 
no  help  for  it  but  to  wait  to  identify  him  until 
he  could  speak. 

When  that  time  came,  he  acknowledged  to  me 


586 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


that  he  had  divested  himself  purposely  of  any 
clew  to  his  identity,  in  the  fear  (if  some  mis- 
chance happened  to  him)  of  the  news  of  it  reach- 
ing his  father  and  mother  abruptly,  by  means  of 
the  newspapers.  He  had  sent  a letter  to  his 
bankers  in  London,  to  be  forwarded  to  his  pa- 
rents, if  the  bankers  neither  saw  him  nor  heard 
from  him  in  a month’s  time.  His  first  act  was 
to  withdraw  this  letter.  The  other  particulars 
which  he  communicated  to  me  are,  I am  told, 
already  known.  I need  only  add  that  I will- 
ingly kept  his  secret,  simply  speaking  of  him  in 
the  neighborhood  as  a traveler  from  foreign  parts 
who  had  met  with  an  accident. 

His  convalescence  was  a long  one.  It  was  the 
beginning  of  October  before  he  was  completely 
restored  to  health.  When  he  left  us  he  went  to 
London.  He  behaved  most  liberally  to  me;  and 
we  parted  with  sincere  good  wishes  on  either 
side. 


No.  6. — Mr.  Lionel  Varleigh,  of  Boston 
U.S.A.,  testifies  and  says: — 

My  first  proceeding,  on  my  recovery,  was  to 
go  to  the  relations  of  Captain  Stan  wick  in  Lon» 
don,  for  the  purpose  of  making  inquiries  about 
him. 

I do  not  wish  to  justify  myself  at  the  expense 
of  that  miserable  man.  It  is  true  that  I loved 
Miss  Laroche  too  dearly  to  yield  her  to  any  rival 
except  at  her  own  wish.  It  is  also  true  that 
Captain  Stanwick  more  than  once  insulted  me, 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE,  587 


and  that  I endured  it.  He  had  suffered  from 
sunstroke  in  India,  and  in  his  angry  moments 
he  was  hardly  a responsible  being.  It  was  only 
when  he  threatened  me  with  personal  chastise 
ment  that  my  patience  gave  way.  We  met 
sword  in  hand.  In  my  mind  was  the  resolu- 
tion to  spare  his  life.  In  his  mind  was  the  reso- 
lution to  kill  me.  I have  forgiven  him.  I will 
say  no  more. 

His  relations  informed  me  of  the  symptoms  of 
insane  delusion  which  he  had  shown  after  the 
duel;  of  his  escape  from  the  asylum  in  which  he 
had  been  confined ; and  of  the  failure  to  find  him 
again. 

The  moment  I heard  this  news  the  dread 
crossed  my  mind  that  Stanwick  had  found  his 
way  to  Miss  Laroche.  In  an  hour  more  I was 
traveling  to  Uettlegrove  Hall. 

I arrived  late  in  the  evening,  and  found  Miss 
Laroche’s  aunt  in  great  alarm  about  her  niece’s 
safety.  The  young  lady  was  at  that  very  mo- 
ment speaking  to  Stanwick  in  the  park,  with 
only  an  old  man  (the  rector)  to  protect  her.  I 
volunteered  to  go  at  once,  and  assist  in  taking 
care  of  her.  A servant  accompanied  me  to  show 
me  the  place  of  meeting.  We  heard  voices  in- 
distinctly, but  saw  no  one.  The  servant  pointed 
to  a path  through  the  fir-trees.  I went  on  quick- 
ly by  myself,  leaving  the  man  within  call.  In 
a few  minutes  I came  upon  them  suddenly,  at  a 
little  distance  from  me,  on  the  bank  of  a stream. 

The  fear  of  seriously  alarming  Miss  Laroche, 
if  I showed  myself  too  suddenly,  deprived  me 


588 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


for  a moment  of  my  presence  of  mind.  Pausing 
to  consider  what  it  might  be  best  to  do,  I was 
less  completely  protected  from  discovery  by  the 
trees  than  I had  supposed.  She  had  seen  me;  I 
heard  her  cry  of  alarm.  The  instant  afterward 
I saw  Stanwick  leap  over  the  rivulet  and  take  to 
flight.  That  action  roused  me.  Without  stop- 
ping for  a word  of  explanation,  I pursued 
him. 

Unhappily,  I missed  my  footing  in  the  obscure 
light,  and  fell  on  the  open  ground  beyond  the 
stream.  When  I had  gained  my  feet  once  more, 
Stanwick  had  disappeared  among  the  trees  which 
marked  the  boundary  of  the  park  beyond  me.  I 
could  see  nothing  of  him,  and  I could  hear  noth- 
ing of  him,  when  I came  out  on  the  high-road. 
There  I met  with  a laboring  man  who  showed 
me  the  way  to  the  village.  From  the  inn  I sent 
a letter  to  Miss  Laroche’s  aunt,  explaining  what 
had  happened,  and  asking  leave  to  call  at  the 
Hall  on  the  next  day. 

Early  in  the  morning  the  rector  came  to  me 
at  the  inn.  He  brought  sad  news.  Miss  La- 
roche was  suffering  from  a nervous  attack,  and 
my  visit  to  the  Hall  must  be  deferred.  Speaking 
next  of  the  missing  man,  I heard  all  that  Mr. 
Loring  could  tell  me.  My  intimate  knowledge 
of  Stanwick  enabled  me  to  draw  my  own  con- 
clusion from  the  facts.  The  thought  instantly 
crossed  my  mind  that  the  poor  wretch  might 
have  committed  his  expiatory  suicide  at  the 
very  spot  on  which  he  had  attempted  to  kill  me. 
Leaving  the  rector  to  institute  the  necessary 


MISS  BERTHA  AND  THE  YANKEE. 


589 


inquiries,  I took  post-horses  to  Maplesworth  on 
my  way  to  Herne  Wood. 

Advancing  from  the  high-road  to  the  wood,  I 
saw  two  persons  at  a little  distance  from  me — a 
man  in  the  dress  of  a gamekeeper,  and  a lad.  I 
was  too  much  agitated  to  take  any  special  notice 
of  them;  I hurried  along  the  path  which  led  to 
the  clearing.  My  presentiment  had  not  misled 
me.  There  he  lay,  dead  on  the  scene  of  the  duel, 
with  a blood-stained  razor  by  his  side!  I fell  on 
my  knees  by  the  corpse;  I took  his  cold  hand  in 
mine;  and  I thanked  God  that  I had  forgiven 
him  in  the  first  days  of  my  recovery. 

I was  still  kneeling,  when  I felt  myself  seized 
from  behind.  I struggled  to  my  feet,  and  con- 
fronted the  gamekeeper.  He  had  noticed  my 
hurry  in  entering  the  wood;  his  suspicions  had 
been  aroused,  and  he  and  the  lad  had  followed 
me.  There  was  blood  on  my  clothes,  there  was 
horror  in  my  face.  Appearances  were  plainly 
against  me ; I had  no  choice  but  to  accompany 
the  gamekeeper  to  the  nearest  magistrate. 

My  instructions  to  my  solicitor  forbade  him  to 
vindicate  my  innocence  by  taking  any  technical 
legal  objections  to  the  action  of  the  magistrate 
or  of  the  coroner.  I insisted  on  my  witnesses 
being  summoned  to  the  lawyer’s  office,  and  al- 
lowed to  state,  in  their  own  way,  what  they 
could  truly  declare  on  my  behalf ; and  I left  my 
defense  to  be  founded  upon  the  materials  thus 
obtained.  In  the  meanwhile  I was  detained  in 
custody,  as  a matter  of  course. 

With  this  event  the  tragedy  of  the  duel  reached 


590 


WORKS  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS. 


its  culminating  point.  I was  accused  of  murder- 
ing the  man  who  had  attempted  to  take  my  life! 

This  last  incident  having  been  related,  all  that 
is  worth  noticing  in  my  contribution  to  the  pres- 
ent narrative  comes  to  an  end.  I was  tried  in 
due  course  of  law.  The  evidence  taken  at  my 
solicitor’s  office  was  necessarily  altered  in  form, 
though  not  in  substance,  by  the  examination  to 
which  the  witnesses  were  subjected  in  a court  of 
justice.  So  thoroughly  did  our  defense  satisfy 
the  jury,  that  they  became  restless  toward  the 
close  of  the  proceedings,  and  returned  their  ver- 
dict of  Not  Guilty  without  quitting  the  box. 

When  I was  a free  man  again,  it  is  surely 
needless  to  dwell  on  the  first  use  that  I made  of 
my  honorable  acquittal.  Whether  I deserved 
the  enviable  place  that  I occupied  in  Bertha’s 
estimation,  it  is  not  for  me  to  say.  Let  me 
leave  the  decision  to  the  lady  who  has  ceased 
to  be  Miss  Laroche — I mean  the  lady  who  has 
been  good  enough  to  become  my  wife. 


END  OF  VOLUME  SIXTEEN. 


. 


